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BARBARA MORRISON 


CHINK-FILLER 


















BARBARA MORRISON 

CHINK-FILLER 

?A Story for Qirls 


BY 

MRS. FREDERICK CRANE 



NEW YORK 

PRIVATELY PRINTED 

I923 



Copyright, 1923, by 
LOUISE HALE MARVIN 




JUN -8 1923 

©C1A705735 

•v.« I 


To 


“LITTLE COMRADES/’ LOUISE AND ALICE 
WHO CONSTANTLY FILLED SO MANY CHINKS FOR HER 
WITH COMFORT AND CHEER 
THIS STORY IS DEDICATED BY A 
LOVING AND GRATEFUL 
“ GRANDMA-AUNTIE ” 


Forbid that we should make complaints 
If unto us should come the call 
To reach the stature of Thy saints 
Through services obscure and small. 

Since it was Thou Thyself began 
Thy great salvation for us all, 

By sending forth the Son of man 
A helpless Babe, obscure and small. 


. 

■ 


1 








BARBARA MORRISON 

CHINK-FILLER 


CHAPTER I 

THE PRECIOUS PROBLEM 

T HE room still vibrated with the slamming of the 
door. 

“Mother,” said Susie, and her usually gentle voice 
almost trembled with indignation, “ I really think you 
are too lenient with Barbara.” 

“Yes,” joined in Amy, an unwonted fire in her 
beautiful eyes, “she was simply outrageous ! Beyond 
all bounds! I can’t help it, mother, I could hardly 
keep from slapping her!” 

Laura, with frowning brow, stood holding a torn 
piece of music in her hand, and said: 

“Well, I did slap her, and richly she deserved it! 
Now, mother, this has got to be decided one way or 
other. If I am to go on giving her music lessons, she 
must do as I tell her. If, because I insist on her prac¬ 
tising a certain exercise, she is free to fly into a rage, 
and snatch it out of my hand and tear it across, that 
ends it. I wont go on !” 

Mrs. Morrison, altogether the calmest of the group, 
looked around on her three daughters. 

“You are all right enough in what you say, and, 
Laura, you were quite justified in slapping her, though 

i 


2 


BARBARA MORRISON 


I am not so sure that it was wisely done or will secure 
the best results.” 

“She won’t tear my music again, that I know,” an¬ 
swered Laura confidently. ‘‘ She really looked scared.’’ 

Mrs. Morrison continued: 

“I shall tell her she must pay for it out of her 
pocket-money.” 

“And I shall tell her that I will on no account take 
her money. I paid myself in the coin I preferred 
when I slapped her. The loss of the music was the 
least part of it all—nothing as compared with the 
abominableness of her conduct.” Her mother nodded 
assent, and Laura went on: “I am not boasting, 
mother, but you know yourself that it is I who am 
doing the favor in giving her lessons, and it wouldn’t 
be a bit easy even if she behaved herself, for she hasn’t 
any natural aptitude for music; but when she treats 
me as if I were a persecutor and she were putting me 
under obligations by even consenting to be taught, it 
is—it is ” 

“Maddening,” suggested Amy. 

“It is true,” said Laura, “it makes me ‘hopping 
mad,’ as the children say, if that is what you mean, 
Amy, by being ‘maddening.’ Now, mother, what is 
to be done?” 

“Girls,” answered Mrs. Morrison to all three, “I 
feel that you are not taking a broad enough view; 
perhaps I should rather say a long enough view of 
this matter. It is more in relation to Barbara’s fu¬ 
ture that I am considering and handling her stormy 
present. You will remember that Barbara always 
was from her infancy a tempestuous young creature.” 

“Goodness!” said Amy, “can I ever forget how 



THE PRECIOUS PROBLEM 3 

she used to scare me stiff by holding her breath until 
she was black in the face when she was in an infantile 
rage. And the clever mite found out quickly enough 
that I would do anything for her rather than have 
her get into one of those fits.” 

Mrs. Morrison continued: “For two years now, 
indeed ever since your father and I returned from Eu¬ 
rope, Babs has been a puzzle to us both. We call her 
our precious problem. It began when she joined the 
church and the difficulties were with her wild remorse 
and fears; but since then I have seen that more and 
more she has drawn away from us all, and taken an 
antagonistic stand. She complains that you girls care 
nothing for her and shun her society. She is not far 
wrong in the complaint.” Each of her daughters 
started to speak, but she held up her hand. “Hear 
me out, girls. I am not blaming you at all. I know 
perfectly well that you have tried until you consider 
further trying useless, and naturally you have lost in¬ 
terest in efforts which landed you nowhere. I am 
right, am I not?” 

“Yes, mother, you are,” Susie answered for them 
all. “And you are the dear you always are to read 
us so justly.” 

“Well, then, girls, be convinced that I also read her 
justly, and that I am no more lenient than the case 
requires. I must sacrifice everything else for the all- 
important purposes of retaining her belief in my sym¬ 
pathetic love for her during this difficult period of 
ferment and transition. All I ask of you girls is to 
pray for her, love her at least a little, and hold your¬ 
selves ready to meet any favorable turn in her moods.” 

“You are such a blessing, mother,” responded 


BARBARA MORRISON 


4 

Laura; “I certainly ought to be able to do more 
than you ask, for I verily believe I should have de¬ 
veloped just like Babs if you had not guided me so 
wisely. Indeed, but for you I fear I should often 
break loose even nowadays, when I am supposed to 
have cut my own wisdom teeth.’’ 

“ I always have felt,” Mrs. Morrison went on, “that 
that year I was away with your father, Barbara con¬ 
tracted some sort of a twist in her character—at 
least in the manifestation of it. She has by nature 
many peculiarities, but I thought she was learning to 
control their outbreak quite creditably.” Here the 
lady sighed. “It did seem unfortunate that she had 
to be left that entire year alone with your poor aunt 
Barbara, who had no more idea how to manage her 
than a kitten. 

“ But with you three in college, it couldn’t be helped; 
for go I had to. Your father would have died if he had 
remained here, and equally if he had gone alone; and 
of course it was not practicable for one of you to be 
left in charge.” She sighed again. “I do very much 
wish, though, that I knew of some outside, inspiring 
influence that might give her mind a new direction. 
She has sunk so deep in morbid brooding these days 
that familiar home influences do not reach her.” 

“ I have it!” cried Susie. “She is one of the King’s 
Daughters, and the annual rally is next week at 
Bridgeton, and that Mrs. Barton, whom they say 
every girl adores, is to make the address. We three 
were mourning because we had made other engage¬ 
ments before we knew of it; but Babs simply must go. 
It is said that Mrs. Barton has a way that no girl can 
resist, or even wants to resist. Some one told me: 


THE PRECIOUS PROBLEM 5 

‘ It s her way more than her say that steals the girls* 
hearts.’ ” 

Her mother brightened. “I am glad you sug¬ 
gested that, Susie; I shall certainly try having her go. 
Pray for the success of the experiment upon our pre¬ 
cious problem, daughters, and see how happy you will 
be when she becomes at last our precious pride.” And 
she smiled on the subdued group as she left the room. 

“ Mother is right about Aunt Barbara; she did a lot 
toward spoiling Babs. From babyhood the child 
wound her around her fingers.” 

“That wasn’t the worst of it, Susie,” said Laura. 
“ It seems a dreadful thing to say now that poor, dear 
auntie is gone; but she had a quick temper too, you 
know, and used to dispute with Babs, and that ended 
her being able to control her. And then, too, when 
Babs found that auntie dreaded her stinging remarks 
about that disastrous love-affair, she did with auntie 
just what she did with you, Amy, by holding her 
breath.” 

“Yes,” answered Amy, “I remember how she 
would make auntie cry. It is really pathetic, though, 
to see how careful poor mother is in what she says of 
Babs’s faults. To her they are only ‘peculiarities.’ 
Though at times I am sure mother is nearly dis¬ 
tracted. The truth is, Barbara is the most selfish, can¬ 
tankerous, suspicious, jealous, and insolent of young¬ 
sters. There, I feel better for having said it; I feel 
nearly as satisfied as if I really had slapped her.” 

Here the “youngster” under discussion walked in 
and slammed some money onto the table, saying: 
“Mother said I had to pay you for that music, Laura, 
so now we are quits.” 


6 


BARBARA MORRISON 


As she turned to leave, her sister held her and said: 

“No, we are not quits on the value of the music, 
because I shall not accept your payment for it.” 

Barbara put her hands behind her defiantly: “You 
can’t force me to take it back.” 

“I shan’t try. There it goes into mother’s poor- 
box. And now, childie, listen to me. I consider that 
I punished your conduct as it deserved, and that is 
all I really cared about. And you might as well un¬ 
derstand here and now that I do not intend to lose 
my temper again no matter what you do. But that, 
all the same, I shall certainly slap you, and slap you 
hard , every time you indulge in an outbreak while 
I am teaching you.” 

“Suppose I won’t take any more of your old les¬ 
sons,” sneered Barbara. 

“That,” returned Laura calmly, “is just as you can 
arrange it with father. He was the one who asked me 
to give you lessons, and I fancy he intends you to take 
them whether you want to or not. Personally, I should 
find it a great relief if you gave them up.” 

“Then I won’t give them up.” 

Laura laughed good-humoredly. “What a contrary 
puss it is!” she said. 

“Barbara,” said Amy, whose indignation was still 
not wholly allayed, “if mother wasn’t so easy with 
you, I wonder if you wouldn’t be better.” 

“I confess,” added Susie in her quiet tones, “I for 
one should like to see the extreme rigor of the law ap¬ 
plied. I just wonder how it would work.” 

Again the room vibrated with the slamming of the 
door. 


CHAPTER II 


WHAT BARBARA HEARD AT THE RALLY, AND WHAT SHE 
HEARD AFTER THE RALLY 

B ARBARA, you will miss your train if you don’t 
hurry!” called a voice from down-stairs. 

“Oh, mother,” called back Barbara fretfully, “have 
I got to go ?” 

“ Is it really necessary to thrash that all out again ? ” 
her mother asked in a tone of weary impatience. 
“You know as well as I do that the other girls can’t 
go—Susie is at her history lecture, Laura is at the 
church-concert rehearsal, and Amy is at the dress¬ 
maker’s.” 

“But I don’t see,” persisted Barbara, “why I 
should have to go to the old rally just because the 
girls can’t—or think they can’t,” she added to her¬ 
self spitefully. “I don’t see the harm of my staying 
away too!” 

“Well, I do,” answered her mother decisively. “So 
come down at once.” 

Barbara flung her book onto the bed, jammed on 
her hat, and, seizing jacket and gloves, hastened down¬ 
stairs, where her mother stood holding the money for 
her car-fare. 

“ Now, Barbara,” said she kindly, “do try to muster 
up a smile. I am sure you will enjoy it, after all.” 

7 


8 


BARBARA MORRISON 


“Well, I am sure I won’t; and I don’t see why I 
can’t be allowed to do the things I like as well as the 
others. They stay or go as they please, and I have to 
do all the horrid old things they wriggle out of!” 

She flung herself out of the house, ignoring her 
mother’s look of mingled distress and displeasure. 
As she appeared at the station, a group of merry girls 
exclaimed: 

“Here comes Barbara Morrison!” 

“Looking as cross as a bear!” added one. 

“Hello, Babs,” called another. “What’s the mat¬ 
ter?” 

“Matter enough! I don’t want to go to the old 
rally of the King’s Daughters, and I have to; and just 
when I was reading the best story yet!” 

Here they had to board their train; but as they 
clustered together in the end of the car, one said: 

“I’ll bet you anything, Babs, that you’ll be glad 
you came. Mrs. Barton, of Boston, is to give the ad¬ 
dress, and she is de-li-cious ! ” 

“The sweetest darling!” cried another. 

“A perfect peach!” added a third. 

“Simply adorable!” confirmed a fourth. 

Barbara’s lips took on a curve of utmost scorn as 
she retorted: “These sweet, darling, adorable, de¬ 
licious peaches of women who go about with their 
pious St. Catherine look ”—and Barbara rolled up 
her eyes—“giving sugar-taffy advice to girls are the 
limit; and I’m sure I shall find your Mrs. Barton, of 
Boston, de-te^-able! ” 

The girls exchanged indignant glances, and one 
voiced her feelings: “Barbara Morrison, you talk like 
an old spitting tabby-cat!” 


WHAT BARBARA HEARD 


9 

This made all but Barbara laugh. She replied with 
glum dignity: “Mary Ann Peters, if you don’t like 
my conversation, you’re not obliged to listen to it!” 

Another girl, standing in amused silence, interposed: 

“There’s one thing I will say for you, Babs, you’re 
as honest as they make them; so I want you to promise 
that if, after all, you do like Mrs. Barton, you’ll ’fess 
up to us.” 

“I’ll do about that, Grace Alden, just as I please !” 
snapped Barbara. 

“Why didn’t you say as you darned please?” gibed 
Mary Ann Peters. “It would just suit your pious 
St. Catherine expression, you delicious, adorable 
peach of a girl!” 

Here Mary Ann was pushed into a seat by her com¬ 
panions and ordered to “behave”; and one of them, 
in the interests of peace, changed the subject by ask¬ 
ing Barbara on what committees she intended serv¬ 
ing, but was shortly answered: “None.” 

So they left her to herself, and she sat out the re¬ 
mainder of the ride in gloomy silence, and in gloomy 
silence trailed behind the others to the place of meet¬ 
ing; where among the crowd of sunny, smiling girl 
faces hers glowered conspicuously. 

When Mrs. Barton, of Boston, arose to speak, and 
the audience enthusiastically gave the Chautauqua 
salute, Barbara’s grudging participation was almost 
as marked as if she had refrained altogether. But 
her determination not to become interested soon 
weakened under Mrs. Barton’s sympathetic voicing 
of girlish perplexities and aspirations; and her clear 
and practical suggestions for solving the former and 
fulfilling the latter, though her discontent deepened 


10 BARBARA MORRISON 

with her interest. Nothing that was said seemed to 
fit her individual case, and she scowled impatiently. 

Suddenly Mrs. Barton paused, looked the assembly 
over thoughtfully, and then flashed into Barbara’s 
eyes a smile that was as personal as if she had called 
her by name. It was only for an instant, but the un¬ 
expectedness of it made the girl catch her breath and 
redouble her attention. 

“Let us get to fundamentals,” continued Mrs. 
Barton. “There exists a talent which is the most im¬ 
portant a girl can possess. In fact, it is by itself an 
endowment; and, though it includes neither organiz¬ 
ing nor administrative ability, more than any other 
it has power to hold society together. It differs from 
all other talents in this important respect, that it 
can be acquired by every one, and probably with less 
effort than is given to following the fashions. And 
yet it is a talent not greatly prized by its possessors, 
although to others it is their chief attraction.” 

The girls were listening in smiling curiosity, but 
the gloom on Barbara’s face said as plainly as words: 
“Of course I’m not ‘in it’! ” Then she started and 
leaned forward, for Mrs. Barton, stepping to the edge 
of the platform, looked directly into her eyes as she 
continued: 

“This crowning power and grace of life which every 
individual of you either does or may possess, but 
which hardly a handful of you covet, is the talent for 
making people happy.” 

There was a gasp of surprise followed by a distinct 
letting down of interest in her audience. 

“Just as I anticipated,” she said laughingly. “But 
let me illustrate my point. I know of a fine monu- 


WHAT BARBARA HEARD 


ii 


ment, built of great blocks of granite, which was in 
danger of ruin because bits of mortar had dropped out 
here and there leaving open chinks. If rain had filled 
these and then frozen, it would have forced the solid 
blocks apart. Therefore, however much the mortar 
used in repairing might despise its office of chink- 
filler, it really was the monument’s preserver. Just 
as serving others holds society together, by shutting 
out the ruinous forces of mere self-seeking. 

“So, girls, to be a social chink-filler is no mean vo¬ 
cation for any of us; nor is it an easy one. It is never 
easy to accept all the poorer portions and places so 
that others may be made happy by the best; to smile 
when you feel like snarling; to efface yourself in hum¬ 
ble services; in short, to fill chinks when you long to 
build palaces. 

“But let a girl undertake with her whole heart to 
become a master-hand at this vocation, and she will 
soon discover that it is as stimulating as basket-ball, 
and far more absorbing than bridge-whist. To push 
the button that brings smiles to tearful faces and hap¬ 
piness to lonely hearts is even worth the sacrifice of 
being out of sight behind the machine. It means 
walking in the footsteps of Him who came in the form 
of a servant, ‘to comfort all that mourn—to give 
them a garland for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, 
the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness.’ ” 

What more Mrs. Barton said Barbara hardly knew; 
she was too busy speculating whether she could master 
this vocation. When the meeting broke up she hur¬ 
ried to the station, and slipped into a seat behind the 
open door of the waiting-room to think it out. She 
hardly heard the chatter and laughter as the other girls 


12 


BARBARA MORRISON 


gathered on the platform outside; nor was she aware 
of the two ladies who entered hastily and seated 
themselves on the other side of the open doorway. 

“There!” exclaimed one softly. “We did get in 
undiscovered. Those girls are dears, but I was starv¬ 
ing for a few minutes alone with you. I can’t begin to 
tell you, Nettie, how much your talk meant to me! 
I was so glad, too, that you said what you did about 
making others happy, for girls are apt to forget its 
importance in their keenness to do big things; but I 
was surprised, too, for it did not seem to fit in with 
what you were saying just before.” 

The other laughed. “You are right, Florence, it 
didn’t fit in at all. It was spoken on the spur of the 
moment. Three seats from the front sat a girl who 
would have been pretty but for her discontented, 
peevish expression. She was a most unresponsive 
listener; and I suddenly felt that I must reach the 
poor child. It was pathetic that any girl could look 
so disgruntled with life when everything about her 
indicated that she came from a prosperous home. I 
wonder if by any chance you know her ? She wore a 
particularly natty suit of blue with red facings, and a 
blue velvet hat with a chic bow of red ribbon.” 

The lady’s voice had risen to a conversational tone, 
and as she uttered the last words a familiar note in it 
disturbed Barbara’s revery with the knowledge that 
Mrs. Barton was speaking. 

“Oh, yes,” answered the other lady, and Barbara 
recognized the voice of Mrs. Gerald, her former Sun¬ 
day-school teacher. “That was Barbara Morrison.” 

Barbara started to reveal herself, but shrank as the 
speaker added: 


WHAT BARBARA HEARD 


13 

“And, frankly, she is the most disagreeable girl I 
know.” 

The involuntary listener could not now bring her¬ 
self to make her presence known, and therefore, much 
as she tried not to eavesdrop, could not help hearing 
what followed. 

“She used to be in my Sunday-school class, and I 
had to ask to have her changed to another.” 

Barbara had always resented this transfer, though 
not suspecting the reason for it, and she could hardly 
control her distress and anger as the voice continued. 

“ It was a real trial to me to do it. Oh, how I had 
prayed for that girl! And how I tried and hoped to 
win her! But whenever spiritual matters came up 
seriously, and the girls began to express themselves, 
she made mocking, cynical remarks that spoiled every¬ 
thing. I have wondered since whether I ought to have 
kept her a bit longer; even though she was thwarting 
all my efforts for the others as well as for herself. You, 
Nettie, would have managed better. Tell me, was I 
utterly derelict ? ” 

“Oh, Florence,” laughed the other, “you are taking 
it too seriously. Of course you had to consider the 
good of the greater number. Besides, if she was a 
misfit in your class it was better also for her to go into 
another. How does she get on now ?” 

“I fear not at all. She has been shifted from class 
to class.” 

“Is she the proverbial only child?” 

“ No, indeed; she has three sisters and a brother all 
considerably older than herself. Her three sisters are 
quite remarkable; all so handsome, and so pleasant 
in their ways that they are immensely popular. Be- 


14 


BARBARA MORRISON 


sides, the oldest is a brilliant student, and the next 
one almost a musical genius, while Amy, next older 
than Barbara, is such a beauty that she would be an 
ornament to society if she never opened her lips. 
Barbara is simply a nonentity beside her sisters.” 

“ Poor girl,” said Mrs. Barton. “How discouraging 
to be so overshadowed.” 

“Yes, I judge she resents it bitterly, and makes a 
personal grievance of it. Barbara has fair enough 
mental ability, and as you saw isn’t bad-looking. 
She could easily hold her own in an ordinary family. 
For that matter, she could as it is but for her un¬ 
gracious manners. She seems determined to go 
through life with a chip on her shoulder. It is a very 
disheartening case; such a needless manufacturing of 
unhappiness for herself and every one about her.” 

“What sort of parents has she?” 

“The best possible; devoted to the interests of 
their children, and with very high ideals.” 

“Then you consider that nothing can be said for 
her in extenuation or excuse ?” 

“No, I think it should be taken into account that 
she is greatly handicapped by a morbid nature and a 
suspicious, jealous disposition; and I do feel sorry for 
her. Still, all that is no excuse for blighting the hap¬ 
piness of every one else.” 

“Why, look at it, Nettie; not one girl in a thou¬ 
sand is either pretty or brilliant. The big majority 
don’t begin to have Barbara’s advantages of health, 
happy home, and easy circumstances; yet they don’t 
go around like wandering thunder-clouds. 

“Sometimes I long to put it to her plainly. Per¬ 
haps I ought to have done so in the first place; but it 


WHAT BARBARA HEARD 


15 

didn’t seem to me wise. Oh, she is cut on the bias! 
Come, we won’t discuss her any more. Isn’t that 
draft too strong for you? It is more sheltered over 
there.” 

With that the ladies moved out of ear-shot, and 
from their frequent laughter had evidently found a 
pleasanter topic. 

Barbara was in a tumult of resentful mortification. 
To have her secret faults, secret even from herself, 
set forth in the light of day; to see herself as others saw 
her, and to find the vision altogether repellent, was a 
staggering experience. 


CHAPTER III 


THE UNEXPECTED MEETING 

I T seemed an eternity to Barbara before the train 
for Borderville came in, and then instead of both 
friends going out onto the platform, Mrs. Barton bade 
Mrs. Gerald good-by in the doorway. In angry dis¬ 
may Barbara shrank back to await the next Border¬ 
ville train, by which time the Boston train would have 
carried the lady off. 

“ This ,” she said to herself, “is the limit!” 

But it was not. For at that instant Mrs. Barton 
with a shiver closed the door and found herself face 
to face with the startled girl behind it. 

“Well!” exclaimed she, her look of surprise quickly 
changing to one of pleasure. “This is luck! I 
thought you had gone on that train.” 

Then she paused, for Barbara, white and agitated, 
had risen. 

“I want you to understand—I don’t want you to 
think—you mustn’t suppose,” stammered the unhappy 
girl, “that I hid there on purpose to listen !” 

“Oh, my dear girl,” interrupted the lady, “such an 
idea never entered my head. How could it? You 
must have been here when we came in.” 

“Yes, and just as soon as I knew you were talking 
about me I started to come right out; but before I 
could do it Mrs. Gerald had told you—I was dis- 
16 


THE UNEXPECTED MEETING 


17 


agreeable; and that almost knocked me down; and be¬ 
fore—I could get over it, she had told you about the 
class, and—and other things; and then I just couldn’t 
show myself; I was so—so ” 

“So hurt,” suggested her companion sympathet¬ 
ically. 

Barbara shook her head. “No,” with dogged hon¬ 
esty, “I was so furious—I was afraid of what I’d say 
or do. I didn’t want to make a scene and have the 
other girls hear; and, oh, I didn’t want to make you 
think any worse of me than you did already. I liked 
you so much, and I’d been trying to think out what 
chinks I could fill—and now she’s spoiled it all! It 
was horrid, horrid, horrid of her to say what she did !” 

“Do you think she was purposely horrid?” 

“Oh, no, she isn’t that sort.” 

“But you do think she was mistaken?” 

“ I don’t know, I’m sure. I wasn’t nice in the class, 
that’s true. I felt mad inside all the time. I couldn’t 
help seeing she cared more for the others than for 
me, because they had been in her class longer.” 

“Do you think it would have been better had she 
told you plainly what she thought?” 

“ No, it would have only made me madder and more 
sure that she was partial, and wasn’t giving me a fair 
show. But I did like her, and I was trying to do as 
she said, and she ought to have seen that .” 

“Even when you took all possible pains to conceal 
it from her?” 

Barbara stirred uneasily but made no reply, then 
in a moment blurted out, as she turned toward Mrs. 
Barton a face expressing mingled chagrin, wistful¬ 
ness, and rebellion: 



i8 


BARBARA MORRISON 


“I don’t see why every one should care for every 
one else, and no one, not a single person , care for me. 
I’ve got rights, too; and it’s cruel of God to make it so 
that no one will care for me.” 

“Your parents, and brother, and sisters?” 

“Oh, they!” and Barbara turned down her lips 
scornfully. “The girls are wrapped up in themselves 
and their doings and haven’t time to care for me; and 
Mark trots after them like a pet dog; so of course he 
hasn’t time for me. I sometimes doubt if he knows 
I’m in existence. Mother watches me, and corrects 
me, and makes me do the things the others don’t 
like to do. And father idolizes them. He sits by the 
hour to hear Laura play the piano, or to discuss books 
and things with Susie, and as for Amy, she is petting 
him every chance there is.” 

“And what do you do for your father?” 

“I ? Why, I don’t see what there is left for me to 
do. You heard Mrs. Gerald say that I was a non¬ 
entity beside my sisters.” 

“Yes, but why do you acquiesce in such a posi¬ 
tion?” 

Barbara opened wide eyes of astonishment. “Ac¬ 
quiesce ? I don’t, I loathe it! But it doesn’t depend 
on me.” 

“It certainly does, my dear girl. You could make 
yourself so useful to every member of your family 
that you would be in constant demand. There are 
thousands of little services that you can do, better, I’ll 
warrant, than any of the others.” 

“I don’t see why I should do all the services for 
them when they’re not willing to do them for me,” re¬ 
torted Barbara with sullen obstinacy. 


THE UNEXPECTED MEETING 


19 


“Ah, that’s the rub, is it? Well, I will tell you 
why. Because your Master said that He came to min¬ 
ister, and not to be ministered unto, and that the 
servant was not higher than his lord; but it was enough 
for him to be as his lord.” 

“Yes,” said Barbara in a more subdued voice. 
“And I would minister to Him; but to them , that is 
different. Why is it any more my duty to them than 
theirs to me ? ’ ’ 

“It isn’t. But then you have nothing to do with 
what is their duty, but only with what is your own. 
And your duty is to minister as your Master did; and 
as He did, to minister freely without looking for re¬ 
payment. Don’t you remember that He said your 
Father in heaven gave rain and sunshine alike to the 
evil and the good, and that He added ‘ Be ye there¬ 
fore perfect-’ ” 

“ ‘Even as your Father in heaven is perfect,’ ” 
quoted Barbara. “But I didn’t suppose that that 
meant anything more than that we should be as good 
as we can. Of course we can’t be perfect like God.” 

‘ ‘ Then why was it put that way ? Jesus never spoke 
idle, senseless words. ‘Perfect’ is used in the sense 
of complete, consistent. God does not discriminate, 
but is kind to all, to the unthankful as well as to the 
appreciative and thankful.” 

Again Barbara was silent, but stirred uneasily; 
and then somewhat resentfully: 

“You mean, then, that I ought to make myself 
something to be just sat upon and trampled on?” 

Mrs. Barton laughed merrily. “Oh, yes. How 
could I mean otherwise ? But I fancy you would make 
a pretty uncomfortable seat; and as for trampling I 


20 


BARBARA MORRISON 


doubt if any of your family would have the courage 
for it, even if they had the inclination.” 

Barbara smiled reluctantly, and Mrs. Barton seized 
her opportunity. 

“I mean just this: that I am sure you have hidden 
about you somewhere the talent for making others 
happy; and that you can, if you are willing, become 
the official chink-filler to your family. I have seen 
a great deal of girls, and I have always found that 
the girl who is sensitive herself is the girl who can 
reach the feelings of others.” 

“Yes,” Barbara interposed grimly. “Mark says I 
know exactly where the joints of the armor are and 
how to stick my pin in.” 

This so completely tallied with Mrs. Barton’s ex¬ 
perience with such cases that she laughed again. 

“Which goes to prove what I said; for the same 
opening is as convenient for introducing balm as a 
pin. Through the guidance of your own longing for 
kindly praise and attentions you can learn to detect 
and satisfy that longing in others. Your sympathies 
and appreciations are very quick, but their exercise is 
being misdirected—turned inward instead of outward. 

“Besides, you sincerely aim to be honest; and are 
therefore bound to be as honest toward the virtues of 
others as toward their faults. These qualities I have 
mentioned make you peculiarly able to give happi¬ 
ness. What then about the obligation?” 

A short hesitation, then the candid answer: 

“I suppose you mean that if I can I ought, and I 
will try. And blushing—“ as to my being honest, I 
did not tell the exact truth about my family. Mother 
is a dear, and does try to understand me; but—oh, 


THE UNEXPECTED MEETING 


21 


well, I suppose she thinks she must look out for the 
others too; and even so, the girls say she pays too 
much attention to my whims. And father, he has 
wanted me to play chess with him, but I don’t like 
chess, and so— Perhaps it would please him if I 
offered, and I will. I suppose I do aggravate the girls 
and Mark; but they might consider how hard it is 
for me to be what you called ‘overshadowed’ by 
them.” 

Then incidentally it came out that she had come to 
the meeting only because her mother had insisted. 
Mrs. Barton caught at this opportunity for turning 
vague intentions into definite action. 

“It will please your mother and give you a good 
start if, immediately upon reaching home, you tell her 
that she was right and you were wrong. And what 
will you do about Mrs. Gerald?” 

A look of distress came over Barbara’s face. 

“I don’t know. I wish I didn’t have to ever see 
her again!” 

Mrs. Barton pondered a moment, and then said: 

“ It was unfortunate that you should have received 
the truth from her, blade first instead of hilt first. 
She could be such a help to you. I have known Flor¬ 
ence all her life, and never met any one more ready to 
love a girl, if the girl would only let herself be loved. 
I wonder”—looking questioningly at Barbara—“you 
don’t think you could go to her?” 

Compressed lips and a shake of the head were the 
answer, and she continued: 

“No, I suppose it is not to be expected, and yet 
it will be awkward for you living in the same place 
and bound to meet her. Well,” with a bright smile, 


22 


BARBARA MORRISON 


“we won’t bother about that now; some way is sure 
to open. But isn’t that my train coming?” 

“Oh, dear,” said Barbara, “and there were so 
many questions I wanted to ask you!” 

For answer Mrs. Barton gathered her close to her 
and whispered: 

“Ask your Father in heaven those questions, and 
I too will ask Him to help you.” 

Then she kissed her and opened the door. From the 
car-steps she said cheerily to Barbara, who had hurried 
after her: 

“Don’t try at first to build. Just look out for the 
chinks; and don’t be discouraged if the mortar doesn’t 
always stick.” 


CHAPTER IV 


PLANNING VERSUS PRACTISING 

B ARBARA returned to the waiting-room so up¬ 
lifted and stimulated that it seemed easy to at 
once plunge into good works. But when, eager to 
begin, she looked about the station there was an ob¬ 
vious dearth of opportunity. She was the only per¬ 
son in it; even the ticket-agent had closed his window 
and stepped out. So she gave herself up to happy 
planning, wherein all her affairs moved rapidly and 
successfully, without a single slip or drawback. 

First of all she would tell her mother how she had 
resolved from this glad day to be a “ chink-filler,” and 
all that was lovely, kindly, and unselfish. She could 
almost see her mother’s lovingly responsive smile and 
hear her encouraging words: “I knew that my Bar¬ 
bara had a noble nature if she would only let it have 
fair play. My child, you have made me happier than 
I can express!” 

After Barbara had enjoyed hearing in fancy as 
much praise from her mother as if she had already 
accomplished a lifetime of kind deeds, she allowed her 
imagination to carry her to the meeting with her 
schoolmates the next morning. How they groaned 
with envy when they heard that she had had a long 
conversation with Mrs. Barton, but how sweetly she 
disarmed them by frankly acknowledging that they 
were right in their estimate of this lady, and that she 
herself was completely converted to their views. And 
23 


24 


BARBARA MORRISON 


then, just allowing pause enough for Grace Alden to 
say, “There; didn’t I tell you, girls, that Babs is 
honest through and through, even when it goes against 
herself?” she went on to suggest that they form a 
Chink-Fillers’ Society. 

With what enthusiastic exclamations was this 
received—“Perfectly splendid!” “The best thing 
yet!” and much more of the same sort—as she un¬ 
folded her plan, and her hearers marvelled at the in¬ 
genuity and completeness of it, until even the scorn¬ 
ful Mary Ann Peters cried: “Why didn’t we think of 
all that ourselves, girls?” Then fancy painted how 
immediately they organized, and she was unanimously 
elected. But no, Barbara really was too honest not 
to recognize that not in any way, much less unani¬ 
mously, was there one chance in a thousand that she 
would be chosen president. But secretary? Yes, 
that might happen, or treasurer; surely, in very jus¬ 
tice they would insist that she, the originator, should 
hold some office. And then they would— Here fancy 
seemed at a loss as to what the new society would do. 
It required some hard thinking, and then all began to 
run smoothly again. There were those forlorn shanties 
down by the creek; they would teach the women how 
to keep their places and their children clean. And, oh, 
yes, there was the hospital, where they could read and 
sing to the sick, and where flowers and good things 
to eat would always be welcome. And then there 
was the jail. But, no, it was doubtful whether their 
mothers would consider jail-visiting proper for them. 

She was excitedly arguing with herself whether the 
poorhouse should be substituted for the jail, or 
whether they should go ahead with the jail and prove 


PLANNING VERSUS PRACTISING 25 

to those benighted mothers that their clever daugh¬ 
ters knew better what was good for themselves than 
they did, when the Borderville .train thundered in. 
Still deep in a brown study, Barbara hurried out, and 
quite unconscious of what she was about, automati¬ 
cally elbowed her way through the crowd of com¬ 
muters and sprang up the car-steps. In doing so 
she pushed aside a boy who already had one foot on 
the lower step, but she did not even perceive him, much 
less notice that he was a cripple. She had a dim, half¬ 
conscious sense of shouts behind her; but too ab¬ 
sorbed to take them in, she only wavered an instant, 
and then hastened into the car. As she dropped into a 
seat beside an Italian laborer, she decided that it 
might be better to begin with the poorhouse, and 
after resplendent success in making the paupers 
happy, strong, efficient, self-supporting, and every¬ 
thing else that poorhouse inmates are not supposed 
to be, then to take up the jail work. 

By this time Barbara’s imagination had attained 
such dexterity that it was not long before all the jail¬ 
birds were reformed, and made into leading citizens; 
so that while the poorhouse had become a delightful 
social community house, the jail had been turned into 
an uplifting social club-house—results devoutly to be 
desired, but not apt to be achieved with the speed of 
Barbara’s optimistic vision. 

She was aroused from her revery just as she seemed 
to be hearing their old pastor say, with glistening eyes: 
“My child, I feel that the influence of your life has 
done more for this town than all my years of preach¬ 
ing!” What aroused her was a clear and manly 
voice, vibrant with sympathy but at the same time 


26 


BARBARA MORRISON 


merrily authoritative, saying: “You poor thing! 
Don’t you dare to move another inch. I’ll go ahead 
and find a seat for you.” 

Barbara looked up. A young man was striding for¬ 
ward, and leaning on the back of her own seat was a 
very stout, ordinary-looking woman. As their eyes 
met, the latter said with a grimace of pain: 

“I wouldn’t mind standing if my ankle wasn’t so 
plaguy bad!” 

At once the Italian laborer sprang up with a smile. 

“If the mees letta me to passa, I givva my seat to 
the lady.” 

“You’re the right kind of a boy, even if you are 
only a dago!” said the stout woman gratefully. 

The Italian’s white teeth gleamed through his smile. 

“Dago boy gooda same Yanka boy!” 

“And better than some Yank girls,” retorted she, 
dropping into the seat beside Barbara. “I’d just like 
to get hold of that girl and give her one good trounc¬ 
ing, that I would!” Then seeing Barbara’s look of 
surprise, she continued: “I mean the minx who made 
all the trouble. We was all waitin’ for a lame boy; he 
had one foot on the step already and his crutch on 
the other side of him to steady him while he hauled 
himself up, when along comes a girl, hurryin’ for all 
she was worth; rushes by us; pushes the boy off the 
step; and skips up into the car before you could say 
Jack Robinson! Of course the boy fell, and his 
crutch flew out and throwed me so that I twisted my 
ankle some way. But I feel worse about the poor boy. 
His crutch got broke and I’m afraid he got hurt.” 

“Some horrid factory girl, I suppose,” said Barbara 
with indignant superiority. 


PLANNING VERSUS PRACTISING 27 

“I didn’t see her, worse luck; it was all over so 
quick. There he comes now; if it hadn’t been for that 
there young feller, I don’t know how I’d ever got onto 
the train. The rest was all busy with the lame boy.” 

“Well, I’m glad you’ve found a seat; the train is 
simply packed,” exclaimed the same cheery voice 
Barbara had heard before. Then as he caught her 
eye a funny little twinkle lighted his own. 

“Yes, that big dago feller give me his.” 

The young man turned to the laborer, saying cor¬ 
dially, “ I wish every one was as polite as you Italians 
are,” and soon they were in animated conversation, 
the American making merry over his attempts at the 
mother tongue of the other. 

“How’s the poor lame boy?” asked the woman. 

“He is a good deal shaken up and there may be 
more nervous shock than appears; but he’s so plucky 
that it’s hard to find out just how much he is hurt.” 

“Did you see the minx that done it?” 

He hesitated, then noting the interest in Barbara’s 
face, answered: “Yes, but I don’t believe she had any 
idea of what she did. She was in a brown study, and 
might have been a sleep-walker for all she knew of 
what was going on.” 

“Well,” from the irate woman, “it won’t do for 
folks to walk in their sleep around railroads. Do you 
see her anywhere in this car? I’d like a chance to 
speak my mind to her.” 

The young man, turning his back and looking up 
and down the length of the aisle, answered: 

“No, I certainly do not see her now, and I am in¬ 
vestigating from end to end of the car.” 

When he turned to them again Barbara wondered 


28 


BARBARA MORRISON 


what he had found so amusing, for his eyes twinkled 
more than ever, and he gave her a glance of sly merri¬ 
ment that nettled her. 

“Though, of course,” she said to herself, “he is 
laughing at that dreadful, common woman. But I 
don’t see why he looks as if he wanted to joke me 
about her, unless he thinks she is an acquaintance of 
mine.” 

So to disprove it she drew away from her companion 
and somewhat stiffly asked how far she had to go. 

“I get off at Borderville, and for the land’s sake 
how I’m going to do it I don’t know.” 

The young man looked troubled. “The brakeman 
and I will get you down the steps; but I don’t know 
how you will manage then. I have to go to Amity to 
look after the boy.” 

“My nephew was to meet me with his nag, but 
she’s that skittish he can’t come down to the train. 
He was to wait for me back of Judd’s store; but how 
I’m to git to meet him there—” And she looked 
quite discouraged. “If I could only git hold of that 
minx of a girl I’d make her help me, and don’t you 
forgit it!” 

It suddenly struck Barbara that here was her op¬ 
portunity, and she said with an air of patronage: 
“Oh, I get off at Borderville, too. I will help you.” 

At that the young man turned away and seemed to 
find the lurch the train gave him against the Italian 
very funny, for the light of laughter was still in his 
eyes when he turned to Barbara with the words: 

“That will fill the bill to the very dot.” 

As they were leaving the train at Borderville they 
passed a pale, shrinking boy holding a broken crutch 


PLANNING VERSUS PRACTISING 29 

across his knees. He straightened himself and a bright 
smile replaced the look of pain, as with a gay “Oh, 
I’m all right,” he answered Barbara’s impulsive “I’m 
so sorry you were hurt!” 

The brakeman and the dago helped the heavy lady 
down. “Gooda lucka!” called the latter, and the 
stranger waved his hat, and off went the train, leav¬ 
ing Barbara alone with her new and weighty responsi¬ 
bility. 

“Here, I’ll carry your bag and you take my arm,” 
ordered she with an authority which was ignored. 

“I’m Mrs. Martin, and anybody that knows me 
knows that I knows what I’m about. You can have 
the bag, all right, but you’re too short for me to take 
your arm. I’ll take your shoulder and use my um¬ 
brella like a cane with the other hand.” 

This accordingly she did; but nothing worked very 
well. Her ankle had become stiff and painful, and she 
bore so heavily upon Barbara that the latter, already 
overweighted with the heavy bag, swayed so as to 
prove very poor support. 

“Ouch!” cried Mrs. Martin, jerking her sharply. 
“Can’t you walk steady, girl? You’re a mighty poor 
stick of a thing ! I believe I could get on better with¬ 
out you. You don’t seem to have any sense about 
helping folks. I guess you never done much of it.” 

Barbara dropped the bag in disgust, roughly with¬ 
drew her shoulder, and said: 

“ I certainly never before helped any one who acted 
as you do. If you want to walk alone, you can do 
it,” and she turned away. 

“Oh, don’t leave me !” cried the woman. “ I didn’t 
mean to be cross; but if you knew how it hurts ! The 


30 


BARBARA MORRISON 


pain is fair killing me ! Oh, dear, oh, dear, what shall 
I do?” And leaning on the umbrella, which bent 
dangerously, she began to whimper. 

“Perfectly disgusting!” thought Barbara. “Big, 
fat thing like that! ” As if being big and fat made pain 
less painful. However, she returned, and said: 

“Here, sit on the station-steps, and I’ll hunt up 
your nephew. His horse won’t be afraid now that 
the train has gone.” 

With pain and difficulty Mrs. Martin was at last 
seated, moaning that she didn’t see what would be¬ 
come of her; she had all her spring cleaning to do, 
and there was the church supper coming on, and how 
was she ever to get back home. All interspersed with 
many “ouches” in anguished tones. But long be¬ 
fore her plaint was ended, Barbara was speeding to 
the rear of Judd’s store, wishing she had thought to 
ask what was the nephew’s name, or at least how he 
looked and what sort of a vehicle he drove; but most 
of all wishing that she had let the whole business 
alone. Just then she heard a man remark to his 
horse : 

“Wall, Sal, I allow the old lady ain’t come, so you 
and me’ll be gittin’ along.” 

“See here !” Barbara almost shouted in her anxiety, 
“are you Mrs. Martin’s nephew? She’s hurt her 
ankle and can’t walk. Drive around on Main Street, 
down by the station.” 

“My mare’s pretty skittish about trains,” objected 
he. 

“Nonsense! The train’s gone. You do as I say,” 
ordered Barbara; and she hurried back to her weep¬ 
ing and groaning patient. 


PLANNING VERSUS PRACTISING 31 

“Oh, do stop that!” she exclaimed. “ Your nephew 
is coming. I’ve managed everything.” 

“B-b-ut,” sobbed Mrs. Martin, “ho-ow’m I to 
gi-i-it in ?” 

“I’m sure / don’t know!” snapped Barbara. “If 
you were as much a baby in size as in behavior we 
could lift you in easy enough.” 

4 ‘ Hello, Aunt Lowisee ! Wall, wall, who’d of thought 
you’d be up to sich capers?” called a jocular voice. 

“Here he is now; get up, I’ll help you in.” 

“No, you don’t, miss. You couldn’t heft her no 
more’n a barrel of flour. You hold Sal; both sides of 
the bridle, close up to the bit. Don’t be afeard; she’ll 
stand all right if she’s helt tight.” 

Rather to her surprise, Barbara found herself 
obediently following directions, and holding the ner¬ 
vous animal, who was inclined to back away from 
even the neighborhood of the station. The man 
lifted, pushed, and wriggled his aunt into the old 
carryall, jocosely encouraging her, while she wept out 
on his shoulder her complaint. 

“Girls ain’t what they was when I was young! 
Here’s one knocked me down, and another’s been in¬ 
sultin’ me steady!” 

“There, there,” soothed he. “Anyway, this one 
got holt of me all right and bossed me like I was her 
son.” Here he laughed loudly. “Hold tight, miss, 
till I git a-holt o’ the lines, and then step back, and 
let her rip.” 

Barbara did exactly as bid, and saw with satisfac¬ 
tion Sal, the skittish, dash off across the tracks. Still, 
as she hurried homeward, there was an unaccount¬ 
able, intangible sense of discomfort at the back of her 


32 


BARBARA MORRISON 


mind; it seemed somehow to connect itself with the 
young man who smiled. Though she assured herself 
that, of course, his amusement was caused by that 
ridiculous creature who had just ridden away, she 
could not rid herself of the impression that it included 
her also. She put her hands to her head; but, no, her 
hat and hair were as they should be. And yet, in 
spite of every effort to shake it off, that vague dis¬ 
comfort shadowed her thoughts. 


CHAPTER V 


BARBARA BECOMES ACQUAINTED WITH HER FATHER 

A S Barbara entered the house, her mother met her 
L hurriedly. 

“Why, Barbara, what in the world has kept you? 

I was really beginning to worry. Now run-” 

“Oh, mother,” interrupted the girl, “I want to tell 
you that-” 

But her intention to immediately follow Mrs. Bar¬ 
ton’s advice to confess that her mother was right was 
frustrated by her mother herself. 

“Never mind now, Barbara. Run up-stairs as fast 
as you can and get your father’s suitcase ready; he 
leaves on the next train for Washington.” 

“But it won’t take over a minute to tell you-” 

“There’s not a minute to spare. Go at once, as I 
say.” 

“ Can’t I even have some supper first ? ” Barbara’s 
tone was exceedingly aggrieved. 

“You should have been here in time for supper. 
Then as her daughter started to speak: “Not another 
word. Do as I say immediately.” 

As Barbara ran up the stairs she flung back over 
her shoulder: 

“If you were in such a desperate hurry, why didn t 
you have Amy pack the case?” 

She flung off her coat and hat in much the same 
mood and manner as she had flung them on a few 
33 



BARBARA MORRISON 


34 

hours before, and glumly began her task. It was the 
one and only service she regularly performed for her 
father, whose business frequently called him away on 
sudden trips. It was a responsibility she had herself 
elected to assume, and she had won her father’s ap¬ 
proving statement that she had never by any chance 
forgotten a single article he needed. 

It is true, Barbara too often went about it with the 
worst possible grace, complaining bitterly that her 
father apparently planned his trips so as to interrupt 
her most cherished occupations. Nevertheless, so 
jealous was she of her official position (dubbed by 
Mark as K. S. C., Keeper of the Suit Case) that once 
when her mother, weary of her complaints, had let 
Amy pack the case, Barbara had kept the family in 
hot water for a week with her paroxysms of resent¬ 
ment and her sullen harping upon this invasion of her 
rights. Her father had returned during this spell of 
weather, as Mark irreverently termed it, and had 
forced a very reluctant explanation from his wife. 

“Send her to me in the library!’’ he had sternly 
ordered. 

“Oh, Lloyd!” And Mrs. Morrison looked un¬ 
uttered pleadings. 

His face cleared. “There, there, I shan’t eat her 
up; but neither shall she go on devouring the peace of 
the family.” 

Not wild horses could have drawn from Barbara a 
confession of her dread of the rare interviews with her 
father in the library; but she never failed to emerge 
from them “made over” (Mark’s expression again) 
for the time being. Whether it was her father’s 
quietness of manner or his sarcasms that drove the 


ACQUAINTED WITH HER FATHER 35 

evil spirit out, Barbara could not have told; but she, 
as well as he, recognized with a pain that would have 
surprised the other that each interview drove them 
farther apart and built higher the barriers between 
them. 

Tired and hungry, Barbara fretted and fumed over 
the packing. What indeed was the use of her ever 
trying to do the high and noble things she had planned 
when even her own mother had no sympathy with her 
efforts ? Hadn’t she been ready to be as humble and 
sweet as—as—oh, any sort of an angel, and her 
mother simply wouldn’t give her a chance. There 
never was a girl, never , who had everything against her 
as she had. But at last the packing was done. She 
hastened down-stairs, and saying shortly, “There is 
your suitcase, father,” she dropped it at his feet and 
hurried in to her belated supper, ignoring his inten¬ 
tion to kiss her good-by, just as earlier in the day 
she had ignored her mother’s. As the front door 
closed upon her secret hope that he might follow her 
into the dining-room for his farewell, she thought with 
a resentful pang: 

“ Much he cares for me, even if I am his own daugh¬ 
ter!” without considering that he had even more 
cause for thinking: “Much she cares for me, even if I 
am her own father!” 

“Where are the girls?” she asked curtly as her 
mother entered the room. 

“Church concert, my dear; have you forgotten that 
absorbing event ?” 

“Humph ! It doesn’t begin till eight.” 

“No, but Mark and the girls went on to Mrs. 
Gerald’s to do some rehearsing. Whatever made 


BARBARA MORRISON 


36 

you so late, Barbara? The other girls passed here 
from the earlier train.” 

“I can’t help it if they did; I missed it,” she 
snapped. The mention of Mrs. Gerald’s name had 
extinguished the last spark of good intention, and the 
evil spirit held full sway. 

Her mother sighed wearily and returned to the li¬ 
brary. The next moment, through the open door¬ 
way, she saw Barbara race up-stairs and almost im¬ 
mediately race down again, and fly out of the house. 

‘‘Barbara,” she called, “where are you going? 
You will catch cold without your coat!” 

There was no reply, and by the time she could reach 
the front door the girl was out of sight around the 
corner, running swiftly toward the station. Half¬ 
way there she caught up with her father. 

“Oh,” she gasped, out of breath, “I was afraid the 
train had gone ! ” 

“No, it isn’t time yet. I went ahead to the post- 
office. But what has happened?” stopping in his 
leisurely walk with some alarm. She explained shame¬ 
facedly that she had forgotten all his “shaving things,” 
and handed him a half-wrapped package. 

“ You forgot! It is unheard of for you to forget any¬ 
thing I need. How did that come about?” and he 
tucked her hand under his arm as he continued on 
his way; but stopped short in amazement at her an¬ 
swer. 

“I was so perfectly furious with mother!” 

“So furious with your mother! Your mother /” 
And to Barbara’s surprise his voice shook. “With 
that sweet saint! Ah, my child, though your anger 
should rise against all the combined goodness and 


ACQUAINTED WITH HER FATHER 37 

sweetness in the world, never, never against her who 
all your life has borne so much for you and from you. 
Tell me all about it.” 

There was no evading the command. Her father 
listened with marked interest, and as she ended, he 
glanced at his watch, and then turned back to a small 
patch of greensward, and drew her down beside him 
upon the single bench it contained. 

“But, father, that is your express coming now.” 

“The local will be here soon, and perhaps I can 
make connections by that; but even if I can’t, you 
are worth more, Barbara, than all the business I was 
going for.” 

Not a little overawed, she sat silent as he continued 
in kindly tones: 

“For you to decide upon almost any practically 
useful line of conduct is a great forward stride, and 
this chink-filling idea looks promising. But your de¬ 
cision isn’t worth the time it took you to make it if it 
topples over the moment your mother substitutes an¬ 
other chink for the one you had chosen to fill.” 

“Why, I never thought of your suitcase as a 
chink.” 

“No, because self-gratification was your dominant 
motive.” 

He instantly repented his words at the quiver of 
her lips, which showed she felt them a cruel injustice. 

“There, dear child,” and he drew her closer. “I 
may be mistaken—I hope I am. This I will say for 
you: that you have plainly developed an intention to 
combat your antisocial tendencies, and therein I owe 
you every assistance, because those miserable anti¬ 
social tendencies are derived direct from me. Yes, 


BARBARA MORRISON 


38 

Barbara, it is unhappily true that from me you have 
inherited a morbid, jealous, suspicious disposition. 
Anything you can do now to correct this means de¬ 
liverance from lifelong torture. Whether you might 
have been saved this inheritance had I done that for 
myself when your age, I cannot say; but by my fail¬ 
ure to at least have given you this chance I have long 
considered that I needed your forgiveness. There, 
there,” for she had thrown her arms about him, weep¬ 
ing, "don’t take it so tragically, Babs. It will be a 
great satisfaction to work with you for your escape 
from this bondage. Your mother is the first and only 
one who ever lent me a helping hand. Whatever 
victories I have gained are, under God, due to her. 
But Heaven knows the sweet saint has had enough 
trouble with me without having to go through it all 
again with you. That belongs to me. All of this 
would have been told you months ago but that your 
attitude toward me made it impossible.” 

"Oh, father, father, forgive me; but really and 
truly I had made up my mind you hated me.” 

"Hated you ! What an insane idea! But there it 
is again, just a reproduction of my own style of insane 
imaginings. Now listen, child; put that silliness out 
of your head forever. Never has there been anything 
for you but a deep love in my heart; all the deeper as 
I recognized in you manifestations of my worst self, 
and saw in you a soul crippled by my own very great 
fault. 

"Now, Barbara, take this in hand with a will and 
fight it to a finish. Your mother and I have done our 
part in teaching you to distinguish right and wrong, 
and you are old enough to make your own choice 


ACQUAINTED WITH HER FATHER 39 

between them. The responsibility now rests with 
you, and it no longer should be necessary for us to 
say ‘You must’ or ‘You must not’; though it will al¬ 
ways be our happiness to advise and help, and I hold 
myself freely at your call.” 

He rose. “And now, precious child, I must go, but 
remember from this moment we are beginning a new 
era together.” 

Trembling with cold and excitement, Barbara 
seized his hands and kissed them; and as he turned 
toward the station she hastened homeward with heart 
as light as her feet. But what would have been Mr. 
Morrison’s consternation had he known the disas¬ 
trous effect of his well-meant confessions upon Bar¬ 
bara’s undeveloped sense of proportion. The long¬ 
standing reserve between them had all too well kept 
him in ignorance of the kinks and quirks in his young¬ 
est daughter’s composition. 


CHAPTER VI 

BARBARA IS INTRODUCED TO HERSELF 

5 Barbara re-entered the library, her mother 



asked: “Where have you been this chilly eve¬ 


ning without your coat and hat ? 

“Now,” as the explanation was given, “of course 
you are in for one of your bronchial attacks! How 
could your father have kept you out in this damp¬ 
ness?” 

“Now, mother, don’t say a word against father; he is 
just the noblest creature ever!” 

“ My dear Babs, I knew years before you were even 
born that your father is ‘the noblest creature ever, 
and I have always thought you singularly blind not to 
recognize it; but the recognition won’t protect you 
from bronchitis.” 

“Well, mother,” crouching over the fire her mother 
had set alight in the grate, “even if I have pneumonia , 
I can never regret this evening with father. If you 
could have heard the things he said about you, that 
you had been the one who helped him conquer his 
faults, and”—clasping her hands over her mother’s 
knees—“the tone in which he called you ‘that sweet 
saint.’ ” 

“ Your father said that to you ? Well, what next! ” 
with a despairing sigh. 

“Why, yes; why not? And he told me that I had 


IS INTRODUCED TO HERSELF 


4i 

inherited my pernicketiness from him. Oh, of course, 
he didn’t use that word, but that’s what he meant— 
and he begged my pardon.” 

For a moment Mrs. Morrison sat speechless while 
Barbara prattled on of her father’s fondness for her, 
the daughter patterned after himself. This exagger¬ 
ated sense of his accountability for Barbara’s unfor¬ 
tunate disposition was not unknown to his wife, and 
she had long feared some ill-advised expression of it 
which would completely turn that young person’s 
flighty head. Apparently this was exactly what had 
happened. So it was with considerable vehemence 
she exclaimed: 

“ Your father begged your pardon ! Do you realize, 
child, your father! And you allowed him to thus 
humiliate himself to you ?” 

“But, mother, he didn’t humiliate himself; I never 
respected or loved him so much in all my life. You 
don’t understand father.” 

The unconsciously patronizing tone in which this 
was said made Mrs. Morrison realize that now, if ever, 
was the time for drastic measures. 

“Barbara, your absurdity is beyond belief. It is 
you who do not understand your father. He has been 
a miracle of patience with you, and if you had been 
the Queen of Sheba herself you could not have flouted 
him worse. But in spite of your ungrateful, unfilial 
conduct he has kept on loving you and trying to win 
you. Why, this very evening when your father 
stooped to kiss you, you paid no attention, but left 
him standing there.” 

“I know. I have been perfectly horrid ,” assented 
Barbara in a tone so humble and contrite that Mrs. 


42 BARBARA MORRISON 

Morrison was silenced. “Then you don’t think I am 
so very like father as he said ?’’ 

“I should think so far more if you imitated your 
father’s efforts to conquer the tendency to the blues 
that you both have in common. He had more than 
enough excuse in early life for yielding; you have none. 
That is why I say that you do not understand him. 
As boy and young man your father’s lot was one of 
loneliness, hardship, and disappointment. I often 
wonder how he bore it at all, instead of coming forth 
so noble from what to most others would have meant 
moral shipwreck. 

“You, on the contrary, have been surrounded by 
every sort of loving care, and guarded from troubles 
and hardships; and yet you-” 

“Yes, I know; I’ve a ‘morbid, jealous, and sus¬ 
picious disposition,’ ’ ’ quoted Barbara. “ I ‘ go through 
life with a chip on my shoulder’; I have ‘ungracious 
manners ’; I ‘ manufacture unhappiness for myself and 
every one else’; and ‘go around like a wandering 
thunder-cloud.’ ’’ 

“Barbara, what ails you?” cried her mother, really 
alarmed as the girl calmly reeled off these self-ac¬ 
cusations. 

“Nothing at all,” was the reckless reply, “except¬ 
ing that ‘them’s the sentiments’ of Mrs. Gerald con¬ 
cerning me; and that ‘my sensitiveness and appreci¬ 
ations are misdirected’ are Mrs. Barton’s; and that 
I’m ‘a poor stick of a thing, and not used to helping’ 
are those of the charming Mrs. Martin. The fact 
that I know all this, and that I know that my father 
loves me, and that we are ‘beginning a new era to¬ 
gether,’ and that I acknowledge that I have been a 


IS INTRODUCED TO HERSELF 43 

wretch is entirely due to you, you sweet saint, just 
because in the first place you made me go to that 
meeting.” 

And forthwith she began to give a detailed account 
of her experiences. 

“But why,” interrupted her mother, “should that 
young man have laughed at you?” 

“Oh, it wasn’t at me; it was at that figure of fun, 
Mrs. Martin.” 

“What sort of a young man was he?” 

“Not any particular sort, just a young man.” 

“A laborer?” 

“Oh, dear me, no, mother; a gentleman. Why, 
he wore gray suede gloves!” 

Whereat Mrs. Morrison laughed, and Barbara con¬ 
tinued her tale. 

“I am afraid,” said her mother at its conclusion, 
“that that poor woman was more hurt than you think 
for. It is a pretty serious matter for such a heavy 
person to be thrown down, and probably what you 
call her ‘babyishness’ was really shaken nerves. 

“ But I am glad that you helped her, my dear, even 
if it does seem to you that she was not properly ap¬ 
preciative. After all, our obligation to be helpful de¬ 
pends entirely upon our opportunity and ability. 
You don’t find in the parable of the Good Samaritan 
a word about the sufferer’s appreciativeness; indeed, 
the Samaritan himself did not once consider the 
other’s attitude toward himself—he was too much of 
a gentleman for that.” 

“Too much of a gentleman!” exclaimed Barbara. 
“Why, mother, what a funny idea.” 

“But isn’t it the very essence of true courtesy to 


44 BARBARA MORRISON 

consider another with absolute forgetfulness of one¬ 
self?” 

Barbara pondered. “I believe you are right, you 
sweet saint!” And forthwith began to hug and cud¬ 
dle her mother extravagantly. 

“ Barbara,” remonstrated the other, when she had 
struggled free, “you act like a crazy creature! You 
mustn’t sit up a moment longer, you are as croaky as 
a frog already.” 

So she was given a preventive dose and hurried to 
bed, where, contrary to her excited expectations, she 
immediately dropped into a doze. The query, 
“Really, why did he laugh?” broke in for an in¬ 
stant, and the next Barbara was sound asleep. 

It was well after midnight when she suddenly 
awoke and sat bolt upright with the startled convic¬ 
tion that it was she who had knocked the boy off the 
step. How she knew she could not have told, but know 
she did beyond a peradventure. It at once explained 
to her that vague sense of discomfort at the back of 
her mind; and it solved the enigma of the young man’s 
amusement. Try her best she could not recall any 
clear details, only a hazy consciousness that she had 
brushed some one aside and that there had immedi¬ 
ately arisen noise and confusion behind her; but the 
conviction only strengthened that it was she who had 
caused all the mischief. 

Then she became aware that her head ached madly, 
and that her chest seemed bound with a band of steel, 
and her hands were hot and dry; in short, that all 
the well-known symptoms of bronchitis were upon 
her. She sank back miserable in body and mind. 
Finally she fell into a feverish sleep and dreamed that 


IS INTRODUCED TO HERSELF 


45 

she was rushing through a dense crowd, snapping the 
bones of all that she met. Each time a bone broke it 
made a queer sound like a cough and gave her a pain 
in her chest. Then she was conscious of a spoon at 
her lips and of her mother’s voice saying: 

“Here, child, take this; perhaps it will stop your 
coughing.” 

“Mother,” said Barbara huskily and sleepily, 
“you and father are perfect saints, but it will be a long 
time before I am any old kind of a saint.” 

Mrs. Morrison laughed. “Oh, I am not worrying 
lest any of us get our halos too soon. There, don’t 
think any more; just go to sleep.” 

For a while it seemed as if the pressure of her moth¬ 
er’s soft, cool hand on her forehead had charmed the 
pain away; but with her departure it returned, and 
with it a steady increase of misery as Barbara saw 
herself for what she was, and owned that the sum total 
of the verdict pronounced upon her had been correct. 
Shame added to the heat of the fever at memory of 
the wonderful things she had vaingloriously planned 
in smug self-righteousness at the very moment she 
was actually injuring others. 

“Oh,” she whispered to her pillow, “I’m the worst 
ever. I do wish mother was here.” But as she opened 
her mouth to call she thought better of it and sighed: 
“No, it’s too bad to wake her up again.” 

And this act of self-denial was the first tiny indica¬ 
tion that Barbara’s repentance was the honest stuff 
that works reformation. 


CHAPTER VII 


WITH THE AID OF HER FAMILY BARBARA PROGRESSES 
HE next morning found Barbara in a state of 



irritated discontent. She complained that of 


course it was just her luck to be laid up in bed when 
she particularly wanted to go to school. What was 
the use of her ever making a real try to do the right 
thing when something always happened to prevent 
her ? She was not a little surprised when her mother 
pointed out that there was no element of ‘Tuck” or 
“happening” in the matter, but merely the natural 
consequences of going out without her jacket, so that 
she had only herself to blame for the thwarting of her 
school plan. Barbara objected that since she went 
out for a good purpose she ought to have been pro¬ 
tected from catching cold. Mrs. Morrison laughed 
heartily at the notion that all the natural laws should 
have been held up to save her from the consequences 
of a needless carelessness. 

“But,” she added, “though you have no claim to 
pose as a martyr, you have a fine opportunity to dis¬ 
play a martyr’s serene cheerfulness in bearing your 
discomforts and not allowing them to cause discomfort 
to others.” 

Later, at the breakfast-table, Mrs. Morrison sug¬ 
gested to her other children that they should show 


BARBARA PROGRESSES 


47 

Barbara some special little attentions, as this illness 
was a serious disappointment to her. 

“I don’t believe she would have these bronchial 
attacks so often if she half took care of herself,” com¬ 
mented Mark severely. 

“Nevertheless, big brother, be good to her,” smiled 
back his mother. 

“But, mother,” objected Amy, “you know that 
nothing we do for her is ever good in her estimation.” 

“Yes,” added Susie, “she seems to resent whatever 
we do, and yet thinks us heartless if we don’t wait 
upon her; besides acting as if it were all our fault 
when she is sick, and nothing we can do is sufficient 
atonement.” 

Laura shrugged her shoulders. “She always makes 
me feel so guilty because of my base inconsiderateness 
in being well that I fairly dread going into her room; 
and yet if I say anything about not being well, her 
attitude expresses scorn for my meanness in competing 
with her for the prize of wretchedness.” 

Mrs. Morrison smiled upon the four. “It does 
require a high order of magnanimity, doesn’t it,” 
quizzed she, “to ignore past rebuffs and generously 
face the possibility of fresh ones?” 

“Thank you, mother,” said Mark, somewhat 
flushed, as he left the table. 

“I will take up her grapefruit,” said Laura. 

“And I will take up the rest of her breakfast,” of¬ 
fered Susie. 

“And I,” said Amy, starting for the door, “will 
bathe her face and hands and punch up her pillows.” 

Just here Mark entered with the first snowdrop of 
the season, and laid it beside the grapefruit with a 


48 BARBARA MORRISON 

card on which he had written: “The early invalid 
catches the early blossom, with love from Mark.” 
Then he stooped to kiss his mother good-by, saying: 
“If we hadn’t you, little mother, to provoke us to 
love and good works, how selfish and hard we should 
become.” 

“No, no,” and she regarded proudly her manly son 
and sweet-faced daughters, “you all have within you 
the generous impulses without which my appeals 
would be futile.” 

As Amy began her ministrations she remarked 
sympathetically that it was a shame Barbara should 
again have one of these horrid attacks of bronchitis. 
But although the latter looked up gratefully, she said: 

“Amy, it is entirely my own fault this time, just as 
mother says, and I don’t deserve a bit of pity or at¬ 
tention.” 

“Mercy on us!” exclaimed her sister, so startled 
she almost dropped the basin of hot water. “What 
has taken the child?” 

Barbara’s lips quivered, but she shook her head and 
remained silent. 

“There, there,” cooed Amy, softly mopping and 
drying her face and hands. “She shouldn’t be teased 
with questions; no, she shouldn’t. And even if it is 
her own fault, she shall be coddled and fixed up like 
a pet kitten, so she shall.” 

Barbara laughed; and then as Laura appeared with 
the grapefruit, and she saw the snowdrop and read 
the card, her face flushed with pleasure and an un¬ 
wonted sparkle brightened her eyes, but she only said 
“Thank you ” in an embarrassed tone. 

However, when Susie came with the breakfast, 


BARBARA PROGRESSES 


49 


Barbara’s face clouded and she asked suspiciously: 

“Where’s mother? Did she set you at this work 
for me?” 

“There now, enough of that,” exclaimed Susie 
pleasantly. “ ‘Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.’ 
As long as we are sorry for you and glad to wait upon 
you, why shouldn’t you receive as cordially as we 
give? I won’t deny that without mother’s encour¬ 
agement we should all have been afraid to come.” 
Barbara’s look of surprise provoked her sisters’ mer¬ 
riment, and Susie continued: “Yes, afraid; you have 
so often shown a dislike to our services that naturally 
we become reluctant to force them upon you; but 
mother reassured us, and we each without a hint 
from her selected what to do. So, Miss Particular, 
try to enjoy having us all paying you attentions. It 
won’t last long; we have other things to attend to.” 

“We are more than ever sorry for you,” said Laura, 
“because mother told us that not being able to go to 
school to-day was an especial disappointment to you.” 

“Did she say why?” and the tone was far from 
genial. “I don’t see why she need tell you anything 
about me.” 

Amy spoke decidedly. “Barbara, you know per¬ 
fectly well that mother never, never gives us away to 
each other. That was every word she told until I 
asked her innocently enough what was going on at 
school, and she simply said some interesting experi¬ 
ment you proposed to try on the girls. I suppose she 
wanted to make sure we would be patient if you were 
inclined to be grumptious with us on account of your 
disappointment. Come, Babs, do let us be sorry for 
you if we want to, and do let us show it without 


BARBARA MORRISON 


50 

turning upon us as if we were hypocritical. You 
wouldn’t like us to think that of you; why should you 
think it of us ?” 

“No”—from Susie—“for we pride ourselves on 
our honesty just as much as you do on yours; did 
you never suspect that?” and her face lighted up 
with her whimsical smile. 

Barbara started to speak, but instead was shaken 
with a paroxysm of coughing. Susie rescued the 
breakfast-tray, while all looked so genuinely distressed 
and sympathetic that even Barbara’s grotesque sus¬ 
picions were allayed, and when Amy suggested she 
should try the school experiment on them, she only 
needed the unanimous concurrence of the rest to con¬ 
sent. She gave a sketch of Mrs. Barton’s address, 
and confessed her intention of starting a chink-filling 
club. 

Probably nothing in all her self-isolated, suspicious, 
and jealous life had ever awakened in Barbara such a 
sense of good comradeship as the cordiality with which 
her sisters received her communication. They im¬ 
mediately pledged themselves as The Slab Chink- 
Fillers—a title furnished by Laura as a roll-call in it¬ 
self because it contained their initials in the order of 
seniority. 

Here their mother broke up the conclave. 

“Go right about filling chinks then,” she said, 
“for there are plenty of them. Mary has such a head¬ 
ache that she is not fit for work; the wind has blown 
papers all over the library floor; and every flower vase 
in the house needs filling.” 

The continued kindly attentions of her sisters en¬ 
couraged Barbara to persist in patience and consider- 


BARBARA PROGRESSES 


5i 

ateness; and she would have almost enjoyed this ill¬ 
ness had it not been for her remorse on account of 
the lame boy. Much as her harping on this in a self- 
pitying strain troubled Mrs. Morrison, she felt still 
more the neglect of Barbara's schoolmates. Grace 
Alden was the only one who called, and even she 
hastily declined the invitation to go to the sick-room. 
It was unpleasantly evident to the disturbed mother 
that her antisocial daughter had been at as little 
pains to win affection outside as within her home. 

“My poor, unhappy child,” thought she, “however 
are you to get on in the world if you nourish this un¬ 
friendly disposition? What can the future hold but 
suffering for you and for those your life touches?” 

So she tried, as she had often before, to make Bar¬ 
bara realize that “she who would have friends must 
show herself friendly,” with the discouraging discov¬ 
ery that apparently the girl did not even desire to 
possess friends. To her reproofs for the accusations 
Barbara brought against her schoolmates the girl re¬ 
torted : 

“Well, why shouldn’t I think such things of them 
when I am sure they think worse still of me?” 

“ If they do,” said her mother at last, “it is only an 
illustration of the truth that with what judgment you 
judge you shall be judged. 

“Besides, it is impossible to believe these whole¬ 
sale accusations of yours; for there could not be so 
large a class in any school with not a single good or 
noble girl in it. Even if I did not myself know from 
personal acquaintance what calumnies you are ut¬ 
tering, common sense would tell me.” 

“Mother,” cried Barbara, “you are the most cruel 


52 BARBARA MORRISON 

woman I ever heard of! You tell me right to my face 
that I am a liar and every other horrid thing! I 
couldn’t have imagined a mother standing up for 
other girls against her own daughter!” 

“ But suppose she knows her own daughter to be in 
the wrong?” 

“That shouldn’t make a mite of difference; they 
are nothing to you and I ought to be everything to 
you.” 

This was so preposterous that Mrs. Morrison 
laughed at first, then said seriously: 

“ It is just because you are everything to me that I 
cannot allow you to give yourself over to all unchari¬ 
tableness.” 

But Barbara was not to be appeased. She launched 
into a joint paroxysm of coughing, weeping, and 
storming, until by her mother’s firmness and the 
medicine she administered she was both obliged and 
enabled to quiet down. Then Mrs. Morrison left her 
to sleep off the effects of her outbreak, wondering to 
herself whether it would have been wiser to have 
omitted the reproof. 

“ It did seem cruel when she is sick,” she thought, 
“but it was my first chance since her conscience has 
been aroused; and, oh, her soul is so much sicker than 
her body, and so much more worth healing!” 

That evening she was reassured when in the gloam¬ 
ing Barbara drew her face close to hers and whispered: 

“Forgive me, sweet saint; you were all right, and I 
was all wrong. I know, motherkins, that you were 
just trying to build a wall to keep me from the Bad 
Lands, and if I would butt my head into it, I deserved 
to be hurt. But ever since I woke up I have been 


BARBARA PROGRESSES 53 

trying to think out the good qualities in the girls; so,” 
rather shakily, “won’t you try to think there are 
some good qualities in me too?” 

“Yes, my precious one,” whispered back her 
mother, “for the word works both ways; when you 
judge kindly, kindly judgment is sure to be given to 
you. I know that my Barbara has capabilities for 
all that is noble and sweet, if she will only exercise 
them.” Then with another kiss: “My darling, you 
have made me very, very happy.” 

Later Barbara realized that she had received from 
her mother the very commendation that on the day 
of the meeting she had imagined herself receiving; and 
that it came, not in response to any high-flown plans 
for public work, but to sincere repentance and con¬ 
fession. Thereupon she did some wholesome meditat¬ 
ing upon the value of small acts as indicating right 
purposes; and in a day or so this timely meditation 
bore fruit. 


CHAPTER VIII 


BARBARA BECOMES ACQUAINTED WITH HER SISTERS 

B ARBARA, nearly well, was trying to study when 
she heard Amy in the next room communing with 
herself. 

“Now, if I could stand on my head or tie myself 
into a bow-knot, perhaps I could accomplish it; but 
as it is, Amy, you idjit, I expect you’ll have to re¬ 
main in this position the rest of your natural life. 
Why did you, did you get yourself into such a ri¬ 
diculous scrape?” 

“What under the sun is the matter?” asked Bar¬ 
bara, hastening forward to where Amy stood with her 
right arm extended half-way down her back. 

“Oh, nothing, only that my sleeve and back have 
formed a mutual attachment and are inseparable.” 

“ Let me fix it.” 

Amy looked her surprise, for as a rule Barbara no 
more thought of offering aid than the others thought of 
asking her for it. 

“It’s my new dress, and I was trying it on to sur¬ 
prise you with, but I surprised myself instead.” 

“ It’s the most complicated thing I ever saw,” ex¬ 
claimed Barbara. “That button on the sleeve caught 
in the lace. No, don’t move; I’ll put you together 
this time, and then you will know just how all these 
fastenings go.” 


54 


ACQUAINTED WITH HER SISTERS 55 

When at last freed, Amy whirled about and caught 
her sister in her arms with a hearty hug. 

“Babs, you’re a brick of a chink-filler! Think of 
the tragedy if I had been captive for life to the intri¬ 
cacies of a new gown. What do you think of it? 
You’re the first soul I’ve shown it to.” 

Barbara flushed with pleasure. 

“Amy, it’s a dream !” she said solemnly, and added 
what her jealousy had never before allowed her to 
admit: “You are the most perfectly beautiful creature 
ever! I don’t wonder father and mother and all the 
rest worship you. Oh,” she continued passionately, 
“if I had one-quarter of your beauty I am sure I could 
be as good as gold. It must be awfully easy to be good 
when a girl is so beautiful that every one bows down 
before her.” 

“Oh, Barbara, stop. If you only knew what a 
temptation admiration always is, and what a bore it 
becomes. You can’t think how it disgusts me to have 
Mrs. Price introduce me to her friends as ‘the beauti¬ 
ful Miss Morrison.’ It makes me so angry that I can 
hardly be decent to them. Then when mere snips of 
boys crowd around me at companies and talk foolish¬ 
ness, I feel as if my good looks were a disgrace. 
They certainly are a disadvantage when they take 
precedence of me myself.” 

“ But they are a part of you yourself.” 

“Only the envelope. If I were to lose them this 
instant I myself would still be left; and I know that 
that same ‘ I myself ’ is a lot more valuable than any 
mere prettiness. Still,” blushing, “I don’t deny that 
my beauty, such as it is, gratifies me and gives me a 
sense of power and influence I would not otherwise 


BARBARA MORRISON 


56 

have. But truly, Babs, I want to make a good use 
of it, for God must have given it to me for that. 
Only,” and she sighed, “it is so puzzling to know how. 
If I try to help the boys, they always get silly. 

“Besides, it’s humiliating to find oneself valued for 
outside appearance instead of for character and ac¬ 
complishments, like Susie and Laura-” 

Here the door flew open and they entered, exclaim¬ 
ing that they had been waiting and waiting for Amy. 

“You said you were coming down to show us your 
gown, and here you are gossiping with Babs as if we 
didn’t exist, you bewitching wretch! Stand up now 
and display your magnificence.” 

So Amy arose and courtesied, and swept back and 
forth across the room, and gave herself ridiculous 
airs, until Susie exclaimed: 

“It is no use trying to make a comedy of yourself, 
for you can’t spoil yourself, do your worst.” 

“Yes,” assented Laura, “and you never before 
had a gown that made you look so perfectly delicious— 
good enough to eat!” and she punctuated the praise 
with a hug and kiss. “You certainly are the beauty 
of Borderville, the peerless pearl of the Morrison col¬ 
lection.” And as Amy made saucy faces at her: 
“Well, then, the disdainful daisy of-” 

But further words were stifled by Amy’s hand as 
she turned inquiringly to Susie. 

“It’s quite all right, dear,” said the latter with a 
smile of admiring affection. “We are proud to have 
you belong to the family. But why didn’t you come 
down-stairs?” 

“She was too busy telling me what a bore it is to 
be beautiful,” answered Barbara for her. 


ACQUAINTED WITH HER SISTERS 57 

The sisters looked puzzled until Amy explained, 
adding that had she possessed the talents of either of 
them it would indeed be matter for self-gratulation. 
Laura shook her head vigorously. 

“Not at all. I can understand how you feel, be¬ 
cause I, too, find it trying to be valued for my music 
rather than for myself; and like you I, too, suffer from 
the paradoxical condition of contempt for the flattery 
which still I long for. But I have something in ad¬ 
dition which you escape. I suppose it would be 
called ‘the musical temperament,’ that convenient ex¬ 
cuse for all sorts of eccentricities. There are times 
when my moods and tenses almost shipwreck me; 
when I am so depressed, or so irritated, or so uplifted 
that I can hardly control myself.” 

“But you never show it!” exclaimed Barbara in 
amazement. 

“Thank you, Babs,” and Laura patted her hand. 
“That is good of you, and a wonderful comfort to me. 
But I should show it badly enough if it had not been 
for mumsie. She made me face the fact that it was 
unalloyed selfishness to yield to my moods; that my 
talent was given to be a source of enjoyment, not of 
torment, to others. Oh, I assure you, she spared me 
neither plain speaking nor ridicule.” 

“What would we have done without mother!” ex¬ 
claimed Amy. “I am sure I should have become a 
feather-brained peacock.” 

“Then you don’t like being musical, Laura?” 
queried Barbara, sorely puzzled over all these revela¬ 
tions. 

“Oh, but indeed I do. It is my joy and delight. 
But I believe that every blessing, however perfect, 


58 BARBARA MORRISON 

brings with it strain and temptation, because of our 
own unfitness. I don’t know how to express it, but 
it seems like this—we are either too small to contain 
it, or too stupid to use it properly, or so selfish that it 
becomes a curse.” 

Susie was listening with a rather pensive expres¬ 
sion, when Amy turned to her abruptly: 

“Come now, reticence personified, we have all been 
laying our hearts bare, what have you to confess?” 

“Not much that is creditable, I fear. I fully agree 
with both of you as to the responsibility and the 
temptation that the possession of any talent involves. 
Not that I have any actual talent; I only have a 
faculty for concentrating my mind and for grasping 
and remembering what I study. That and a passion 
for acquiring knowledge are my outfit. The tempta- 1 
tion in my case is to do with my mind what a greedy 
boy does with his body at a Thanksgiving dinner. 

Of course knowledge absorbed for the mere pleasure 
of absorbing it is plain mental gourmandizing; but it is 
actual pain to exercise self-restraint when I get in¬ 
terested, and to take time from study to do some¬ 
thing for some one else—ugh! that is self-abnegation 
indeed ! That is why mother has advised me to take 
up teaching for a while, so that I may accustom my¬ 
self to sharing my blessing with others. Mother has 
been no end of help in making me see the arrogance 
and selfishness of intellectualism for its own sake. 
And father, and you girls, and Mark have all been a 
lot of help to me. Don’t suppose I haven’t seen how 
you all squarely face your spiritual enemies and battle 
with them.” 

With the exception of Laura they had apparently 


ACQUAINTED WITH HER SISTERS 59 

forgotten Barbara’s presence, but Laura glanced 
smilingly toward her and said: 

“ Every one of the Morrison family has been a help 
to me.” 

11 Not I ?” questioned Barbara involuntarily. Laura 
flushed; she had not expected to be taken up so 
promptly, and to give an honest reply required no little 
courage. But with a winning graciousness she said: 

“ Yes, Babs, you too. You are feeling so differently 
about things from what you did a while ago that you 
will know I do not mean it unkindly, dear, when I say 
that the gloom your moods used to cast over the whole 
family, and the tears they often brought to mother’s 
eyes, and that look of desperation to father’s face, 
roused all my determination to fight my own moods 
to the death; and to use my music to restore calm and 
happiness to the household.” Then playfully seizing 
in both hands the crimson face Barbara was turning 
to the wall, she went on: “But now that you are 
changed—oh, yes, you are—perhaps I shall feel free 
to take my turn at letting out my temperament upon 
occasion. I assure you if I do you’ll get some lessons 
in high dramatics, Miss Chink-Filler; for as Mary 
says: ‘I suttinly has my own invidious feelin’s.’ I 
suppose she means ‘individual.’ ” 

Barbara, with an effort, gulped down the “invidious 
feelin’s” that Laura’s frankness aroused, and joined 
in the general laughter. After the girls had left, she 
did some serious considering, and admitted that their 
paths had some thorns as well as her own; but not 
nearly as many—dear me, no. Still, the situation was 
making for mutual understanding, and this she began 
to covet as never before. 


CHAPTER IX 


ACTION AND REACTION AND THE CONSEQUENT 
BRUISES 

B ARBARA started for school with self-confident 
enthusiasm. Everything had gone well at home. 
After all, it wasn’t so hard to be good; and she would 
show her schoolmates how to accomplish it. 

At her gate she was joined by Amelia Fethering, a 
girl whose gossipy, mischief-making nature caused her 
to be generally avoided and snubbed. When espe¬ 
cially under a cloud of disfavor, she had a way of 
turning to Barbara for companionship, and because 
she was the only girl who did so, Barbara, without 
really liking her, had tolerated her. This morning, 
however, she would probably have shaken her off 
had not Amelia greeted her with: 

“Have you heard the news about Mary Ann 
Peters’s father?” 

“What news?” and Barbara felt mean as she asked 
it, for she knew well enough that Amelia’s news was 
always disparaging, and she knew, too, that in this 
case she was willing it should be so. Amelia, quite 
charmed to have found an auditor, surpassed herself 
in the vivacity and detail with which she told how 
Mr. Peters had been summoned before a meeting of 
the directors of the Reinforced Refrigerator Com¬ 
pany, and had been dismissed as manager, and that 
this and that were supposed to be the reasons, for of 
60 


ACTION AND REACTION 


61 


course every one was sure that he had done some¬ 
thing , and so he was in disgrace, and perhaps Mary Ann 
wouldn’t be quite so free with her tongue now, etc., 
etc., the only element of fact in it all being that Mr. 
Peters had met with the directors, and was no longer 
connected with the business. 

Upon reaching school Barbara was much surprised 
to find Mary Ann quite unabashed, the centre of a 
group of laughing girls. 

“Hello, Babs,” said one; “so the King’s Daughters’ 
meeting made you sick ? Too bad.’’ 

Now that her opportunity had come, Barbara found 
herself strangely embarrassed; and as she plunged 
into the speech she had painstakingly prepared, her 
embarrassment increased, for the girls drew back 
from her and listened with hardly concealed antago¬ 
nism, exchanging significant glances, and even smiles. 
Her club proposition was received in complete silence, 
and they began to gather up their books and turn to 
leave the room. 

Barbara looked about for Grace Alden, on whose 
kindness she could always count, but she was not 
there, and not a single friendly glance met her own. 
In a voice choking with angry mortification she ex¬ 
claimed : 

“Well, evidently all your admiration for Mrs. 
Barton took itself out in words. I seem to be the only 
one in earnest. I suppose,” triumphantly, “that that 
is the reason she talked so confidentially with me.” 

Here Mary Ann turned around long enough to re¬ 
mark flippantly: 

“Yes, sweet saint, I don’t doubt your halo quite 
dazzled her eyes. But as you’ve never shown a 


62 


BARBARA MORRISON 


glimmer of it to us, we’ll just wait to see you do some 
chink-filling yourself before we become your dis¬ 
ciples !” 

Perhaps if Mary Ann had not used that term “sweet 
saint,” who knows Barbara might have been able to 
control herself. As it was, she flung self-control to the 
winds, and uttered the most cruel and cutting retort 
she could think of in her passionate haste. 

“Well, Mary Ann Peters, considering how your 
father’s disgraced himself and been turned out of his 
place for what he’s done, I should think you would 
feel like keeping quiet for once.” 

Mary Ann’s face grew white, but she had no need to 
answer. 

“For shame, Barbara Morrison!” “Don’t speak 
to the horrid old thing, Mary Ann; we all know bet¬ 
ter!” cried the girls, and they surrounded her with 
their encircling arms, and swept her out of the room 
before another word could be exchanged. Even 
Amelia joined the vanishing group. All that morning 
Barbara was made to feel in their averted, frigid faces 
the displeasure of her schoolmates. Knowing per¬ 
fectly well, but refusing to acknowledge it to herself, 
that she had been inexcusably brutal and cruel in 
thus attacking a girl who was innocent of her father’s 
misdeeds, Barbara’s ill humor increased with her dis¬ 
comfort, so that when at home she sat down to lunch 
she was very much like the Barbara of old at her 
worst. 

She found the family in a flurry of assisting Mark, 
who had been summoned to join his father in Wash¬ 
ington. When at last all were settled at the table, 
her mother asked cheerfully: 


ACTION AND REACTION 63 

“Well, Barbara, how did the girls receive your 
suggestions ? ” 

“They were all perfectly horrid,” snapped she, 
“and Mary Ann Peters the worst of all. But,” with 
grim satisfaction, “ I let her know just what I thought 
of a girl whose father had been turned out of his 
place in disgrace!” 

“What?” almost shouted Mark, suddenly arrested 
in the effort to bolt his lunch. Barbara, who thought 
his surprise related altogether to hearing for the first 
about Mr. Peters, began to repeat Amelia’s account, 
but Mark brusquely interrupted her by asking: 

“How do you know he has been turned out?” 

“Why, Amelia said-” 

“ Never mind Amelia; what do you know about it ?” 

“ Nothing but what Amelia told me; how should I ? ” 

“How do you know Amelia wasn’t lying?” 

“Mark, Mark!” exclaimed his mother. 

“Well, making a mistake then?” corrected he im¬ 
patiently. 

“Why, hasn’t Mr. Peters been turned out?” asked 
Barbara, rather disconcerted. 

Mark glanced at his watch, rose hastily, and said: 

“It’s nearly train time. I can only tell you this: 
that Mr. Peters has covered himself with glory, just as 
father and I, who have known of the affair from the 
outset, have been sure he would. It’s the other side 
that’s in disgrace; and it would be a mighty good 
thing if every other girl had as good reason to be 
proud of her father as Mary Ann Peters has. If you 
have spread any lying reports to the contrary, you de¬ 
serve-” 

Here his mother’s warning glance checked him. 


64 BARBARA MORRISON 

He hurriedly kissed them all except Barbara, saying 
to her: 

“When you make amends to Mary Ann Peters, I 
may be willing to account you my sister, but not un¬ 
til you do!” 

Barbara sat pale with dismay while the others 
turned shocked faces upon her. 

“But Amelia said—” she began in self-justification. 

“Oh, my child, my child,” interrupted her mother, 
“how could you believe any scandal of Mr. Peters, 
who has been your father’s best friend from boyhood, 
and whom we all know to be the soul of honor ? And 
to speak of it to his daughter! How can I ever look 
Mrs. Peters in the face again? That your father’s 
daughter could do such a thing ! ’’ 

“But, mother, how was I to know that Mr. Peters 
wasn’t, after all, a hypocrite?” 

“Mr. Peters a hypocrite!” repeated Amy indig¬ 
nantly. “You might just as well say father is a 
hypocrite!” 

“Besides,” added Laura quite as indignantly, “even 
if he were, it isn’t to his daughter you should men¬ 
tion it! ” 

“The cruelest insult!” exclaimed Susie. 

As Barbara looked from one to another disapprov¬ 
ing face, her old habit reasserted itself. 

“Always the way,” said she; “you’re always down 
on me! I’m always the one that’s done wrong. 
I-” 

“Barbara, stop this instant,” said her mother. 
“You are the last one who should utter reproaches. 
Oh, that uncontrolled tongue of yours! When will 
you realize that in one moment you may do mischief 


ACTION AND REACTION 


65 

with it that years cannot repair! How could you listen 
to such a tale in the first place, when you’ve told me 
over and over that Amelia is absolutely unreliable? 
And then to mention it before others ! Oh, you have 
done a great wrong, and I fear a very far-reaching 
one. 

“The facts are that Mr. Peters was not turned out, 
but on the contrary was urged to remain, and was of¬ 
fered a large increase of salary if he would consent; 
but for reasons which do him infinite honor he insisted 
upon resigning his office. I might add that there is a 
plan on foot to secure for him a much finer position. 
But of all this you must say nothing, excepting that 
you may confess that you were altogether wrong in 
every particular, and didn’t know what you were talk¬ 
ing about, and that whatever occurred was wholly to 
Mr. Peters’s credit. Oh, what would your father say 
if he knew of this!” 

“If you had only told me before! It all comes of 
your never telling me anything!’’ cried the girl, 
alarmed at this reference to her father. 

“How childish of you, Barbara! Do you suppose 
your father or I would discuss the business affairs of 
others with a silly girl just in her teens, even if we were 
not painfully aware that that girl has a perfectly 
unbridled tongue ?” 

Barbara sat in silence until her sisters left the room, 
and then asked timidly: “Are you going to tell 
father?” 

Instead of answering, her mother demanded a com¬ 
plete account of the occurrence. Barbara complied, 
but she faltered and almost broke down as, no longer 
under the control of passion, she began to realize what 


66 BARBARA MORRISON 

a vulgar and mean, as well as cruel, part she had en¬ 
acted. 

“What would you have thought of any one who 
talked to you in that way?” 

“Mother,” said Barbara solemnly, quite subdued 
by the pain of her awakened perceptions, “I couldn’t 
think worse of her than I think of myself for doing it. 
Do you suppose it really was I myself ? Mightn’t it 
have been some evil spirit in me that spoke for me ? 
Something I really wasn’t responsible for?” 

“The old, threadbare excuse!” sighed Mrs. Mor¬ 
rison. “The coward’s plea, ‘I couldn’t help myself.’ 
Whatever fault of word or deed you may commit, at 
least do not descend to the poltroonery of shouldering 
the responsibility for it off onto some one else real or 
imaginary. I am willing to own that Mary Ann was 
very exasperating, and that a sharp answer from you 
would have been natural, even though wrong, but 
this-” 

“Yes, I know what you are going to say—‘ This was 
hitting below the belt!’ ” 

“Well, no, that was not what I was going to say, 
although it expresses my idea.” 

“If all the responsibility does belong to me,” con¬ 
tinued Barbara, “do tell me how I happened to do 
a thing that I so plainly see was despicable and 
abominable ? How did I get that low down all of a 
sudden ?” 

But Mrs. Morrison knew that there was nothing 
sudden about it; that indeed Barbara had many 
times made remarks quite as “despicable and abomi¬ 
nable” to her own sisters, and even to her mother; 
and that her present self-condemnation was the result 


ACTION AND REACTION 67 

of increased spiritual sensitiveness, not of greater 
guilt, so she answered: 

“ For a number of years, whenever you’ve been an¬ 
gry, you have felt free to say whatever came into your 
head. It is impossible but that such a habit should 
constantly grow stronger. And now that at last you 
recognize its wickedness, you must brace yourself to 
curb it. It will be a very, very hard and painful fight; 
but it is now or never. You have simply got to face 
this thing. And your first step is, of course, to ask 
Mary Ann’s pardon-” 

“Oh, mother, must I? I can’t, I can’t! She will 
crow over me so ! I can’t.” 

“Why, Barbara!” exclaimed her mother with a 
look of such amazed disapprobation that Barbara hid 
her face in her hands, “is it possible that you hesitate 
for a moment ? I never could have believed so badly 
of you ! I thought you would want to beg pardon for 
such an injury.” 

“Oh, I can’t,” groaned the girl. “Mary Ann de¬ 
tests me, anyway, and I detest her; and there wont 
be anything bad enough for her to say to me if I hum¬ 
ble myself to her!” 

“Very well,” said Mrs. Morrison coldly. If you 
have really sunk that low, Barbara, there is nothing 
left for me but to command you to go this very after¬ 
noon and make a proper apology to Mary Ann.’ 

She arose to leave the room, but Barbara caught 
her dress and, raising woful eyes, cried: 

“Mother, mother, don’t speak that way to me! 
If you turn against me, it’ll kill me dead ! Isn t there 
some other way? Isn’t there?” 

“My child, can you yourself think of any other? 


68 BARBARA MORRISON 

You have done a cruel wrong; should not you rather 
than your victim suffer its consequences? Would 
common decency require less of you?” 

Barbara loosened her hold and bowed her head on 
the table. It was not a long struggle, but so sharp 
that her face was strained and white as she arose and 
doggedly put on her hat and jacket, and started for 
the door; for she had owned to herself that there was 
indeed no other way. 


CHAPTER X 


SPEAKING THE TRUTH IN LOVE 

I T happened there was no school session that after¬ 
noon ; so she walked on slowly in a brown study as 
to where she was to meet Mary Ann and how ap¬ 
proach her. She did not notice that she had inad¬ 
vertently turned down the street on which Mrs. 
Gerald lived, until that lady spoke to her at her open 
gate. 

“I saw you coming and it occurred to me that the 
very chance I needed had been made for me far bet¬ 
ter than I could have made it for myself. Come in; I 
have a note from Mrs. Barton that I want you to 
read.” 

Except for her surprise and confusion, Barbara 
would doubtless have declined this invitation; but, 
as she hesitated, Mrs. Gerald placed her arm about 
her and gently drew her toward the piazza steps, where 
she seated herself beside her, and handed her an en¬ 
velope, saying: 

“It has just come in this mail; read it.” 

Barbara took it reluctantly. She felt as if some sort 
of a crisis were at hand as she opened and read: 

“My Beloved Florence: 

“ This is the first chance I have had to write, and 
only a brief chance at that. But I must not postpone 
longer telling you that Barbara Morrison was in the 

69 


70 


BARBARA MORRISON 


station that day we parted, and heard all of our con¬ 
versation about her. That it was innocently done on 
her part, you must believe without the explanations 
for which I have at present no time. 

‘‘I will not conceal the fact that her unfriendly 
feelings toward you are of the strongest. But do not 
despair. I am convinced from my talk with her that 
the girl does indeed long to be different, and I am 
equally convinced that you can help her and that 
God will show you the way. 

“With unbounded love and confidence, your 

Nettie.” 

“Well?” asked Mrs. Gerald. But Barbara slowly 
folded the paper in silence, and not for some moments 
did she answer, and then it was with downcast eyes but 
a tone of stubborn displeasure that she said: 

“I can never forgive you; never!” and she started 
to rise, but Mrs. Gerald detained her, saying with 
quiet emphasis: 

“I am not asking you to forgive me.” 

“Why, no, of course you haven’t asked me in so 
many words, but I supposed that was what you 
wanted. If not, why did you stop me at all ?” 

Mrs. Gerald parried this question with another: 
“Do you think a man who had been robbed would 
ask the thief’s pardon for mentioning the fact to a 
friend?” 

“I—I don’t understand,” stammered Barbara, con¬ 
siderably shaken by the lady’s manner. 

“ Let me explain, then. I know you didn’t think of 
it as robbery, and yet by your cheap sneers and flip¬ 
pant ridicule you robbed me of your classmates’ at- 


SPEAKING THE TRUTH IN LOVE 71 

tention and of my influence over them; and robbed 
of all value the lessons I had been at great pains to 
prepare. I realized that the good of eight girls must 
not be further sacrificed to the contrariness and folly 
of one, and so I asked for your removal.” 

Mrs. Gerald had spoken gently, even sadly; but 
Barbara, very red in the face, burst forth: 

“You are saying perfectly dreadful things of me, 
and just because once in a while I let the girls know 
that I saw through their hypocrisy when they talked 
so piously.” 

Mrs. Gerald waited while the girl talked on, until 
breathless, of favoritism and injustice, then answered 
with unruffled mildness: 

“I am speaking very plainly, because it would be 
unkind to go on thinking and saying of you what I am 
not willing to say to you. Besides, I see no possible 
way of being useful to you without putting plainly 
the hard truth of the case.” 

“But,” insisted Barbara, “I don’t think it is true. 
I wasn’t as bad as you make me out; and,” with in¬ 
creased stubbornness, “I don’t believe I did harm the 
girls. They were as old as I and had just as much 
freedom as I had to think and speak as they pleased.” 

“ Certainly, they had; and I am not defending their 
succumbing to your influence, and still less my inabil¬ 
ity to counteract it. I am simply stating facts.” 

More obstinately than ever Barbara shook her head, 
insisting that it was not through fault of hers that the 
difficulties had arisen in the class. 

“Well, then,” said Mrs. Gerald, “you force me to 
specify by giving you at least one instance—and more 
if you desire them. Until you are convinced of the 


72 BARBARA MORRISON 

mischief done by your tongue, you will never fight 
whole-heartedly against the spirit within which 
prompts your words; so I will give you one instance. 

“At the time you entered the class, Mary Ann 
Peters was deeply interested in religious matters. She 
frankly avowed her desire to become a Christian, and 
seemed on the point of a final decision. Once she re¬ 
marked in your hearing that if the character of Jesus 
were studied with an open mind, it was impossible 
not to reverence Him and love Him; and you laughed 
and said— Ah, I see that you remember what you 
said, and perhaps you remember her retort?” 

Barbara bowed her shame-stricken head in assent, 
for she had asked sneeringly the ancient question: 
“Is Saul also among the prophets?” And Mary 
Ann’s prompt retort had been: “Not on your life, if 
you are one of them!” 

They had both exchanged further heated remarks 
before order was restored, and a mutually hostile at¬ 
titude had been maintained throughout that and fol¬ 
lowing sessions. 

“That,” continued Mrs. Gerald gravely, “was the 
turning-point with Mary Ann. When later I had a 
private talk with her and urged her decision, she 
bluntly told me that you had cured her of all desire 
to come out openly as a Christian. Her words were: 
1 Look at Barbara Morrison! She calls herself a 
Christian, and if religion is going to make me like her, 
I don’t want to have anything to do with it!’ Noth¬ 
ing I could say had any effect; her one reply was that 
when she saw religion had the power to make you 
better, she would consider it herself. She begged me 
not to talk to her about it, and added with tears: 


SPEAKING THE TRUTH IN LOVE 73 

‘Really, Mrs. Gerald, I’d give a lot to feel as I did 
a few weeks ago, but Barbara has cured me of all 
that!’ ” 

“But,” interrupted Barbara, “they were just a few 
words, and I never meant them to do any harm.” 

“ No, you didn’t mean them to do harm. They were 
only idle words, to the possible effect of which you 
gave no more thought than a man who throws his 
cigar-stub into a heap of dry hay. You were simply 
indulging your love for cheap ridicule. It was of just 
such unconsidered words that Jesus spoke when He 
said that for every idle word that men spoke they 
should give account, and He made them the standard 
by which judgment should be pronounced in saying: 
‘ For by thy words thou shalt be justified, and by thy 
words thou shalt be condemned.’ ” 

Barbara’s head sank lower as she muttered: 

“Anyway, they were no worse, not as bad as Mary 
Ann said to me!” 

“ I am making no excuses for Mary Ann. I am not 
even making a point of your having begun the affair. 
But I am very seriously asking you to open your eyes 
to the false position in which you placed yourself, 
and the tremendous responsibility you assumed to¬ 
ward the other girls, when you hindered instead of 
helping a new adherent to come to Him whom you had 
publicly avowed as your Master. If those words of 
yours had so much influence over Mary Ann, is it 
not more than likely that kindly, sympathetic words 
from you would have settled the matter the other way 
for her?” 

But Barbara evaded the point with the character¬ 
istic complaint: 


74 


BARBARA MORRISON 


“It is always the way that if harm is done, I am, 
of course, the guilty one; but if good is done, some one 
else gets the credit. And yet I don’t believe one of 
the girls has been so busy laying plans for doing good 
as I have; a lot of good, too, and the kind that is 
worth while—the kind that Mrs. Barton praised. I 
told the girls about it and not one would have a thing 
to do with it. So it seems to me that, after all, I am 
the one who is working for Christ!” 

It was evident that Barbara intended to excuse her¬ 
self from all past responsibility toward others by ac¬ 
cusing their present attitude toward herself. Accord¬ 
ingly Mrs. Gerald, seeing that further pressure of her 
point was useless, shifted her position to meet Bar¬ 
bara’s new stand, and said cordially: 

“I am very glad to hear this, my dear. It agrees 
with what Mrs. Barton wrote of you. Laying plans 
for good deeds is fascinating occupation, and I am 
sorry you should have met with discouragement.” 

The girl looked up quickly, but Mrs. Gerald was so 
plainly sincere that her defiant obstinacy dropped 
away, and she went on in a tone far less aggressive: 

“ I told Mrs. Barton I would work for Jesus, but how 
can I if nobody will have anything to do with me?” 

“ It will not be counted against you, dear, if having 
the will to work you cannot make the opportunity.” 

“Then I’m just to sit still and waste my time?” 

“Oh, no, indeed! There are too many things you 
can do all by yourself for that! The so-called little 
things which may prove to be clews to more impor¬ 
tant work even than what you had planned. Then 
there is the being, which offers endless opportunities, 
and is vastly more important than mere doing .' 1 


SPEAKING THE TRUTH IN LOVE 75 

“The being? I don’t believe I know what you 
mean.” 

“ It’s the toughest sort of proposition to carry out,” 
and Mrs. Gerald shook her head with a rueful smile. 
“It consists in making kindliness, helpfulness, cheer¬ 
fulness, etc., as much part and parcel of our char¬ 
acters as our hearts and lungs are of our bodies. We 
would then be kind, even if we had no opportunity to 
do kind deeds—kind, though alone on a desert island. 

“Why, there can be just as much difference be¬ 
tween being kind and doing kindnesses as there is be¬ 
tween a natural rose and an artificial one. Indeed, 
kind deeds are often very artificial and done only for 
selfish reasons.” 

“But I don’t see any great merit,” retorted the 
girl scornfully, “in just feeling kind and never acting 
it out.” 

“Merit aside,” answered the lady, “it is a great ad¬ 
vantage to have your heart so filled with goodness 
that it overflows whenever opportunities arise. It is 
like the trained fire-brigade ready for the emergency 
day or night.” 

Barbara again evaded the point by rising and saying 
bitterly: “I know you consider me a moral leper 
bound straight for hell-fire!” 

Mrs. Gerald rose too, and placing her hands on the 
girl’s shoulders gave her a little shake. “I think you 
a very contrary child, with a ridiculously stubborn 
determination to take all that I say wrong and first. 
And yet,” as she slipped her hands either side of 
Barbara’s face and lifted it toward her own, “you 
have so much out of which God can mould a lovable, 
noble girl if you will only let Him.” 


76 BARBARA MORRISON 

Barbara flushed, and almost before she knew it had 
returned her kiss, and the next moment was hasten¬ 
ing toward the gate with a queer little thrill tugging 
at her heart. 


CHAPTER XI 


SOME HARD NUTS CRACKED, AND BARBARA GOES UP 
LIKE A ROCKET 

B ARBARA walked on breathless and confused. 

To have what she had considered clever, biting 
sarcasms coolly dubbed “cheap ridicule” and “flip¬ 
pant sneers” was a blow to her vanity; and to be con¬ 
sidered siding against Jesus for what she had plumed 
herself upon as the detection and exposure of hypoc¬ 
risy was a crushing blow to her self-righteousness. 

Though not willing to own herself responsible for 
the defection of Mary Ann, she approached her house 
with a sense of guilt as new as it was distressing to her 
proud self-confidence. 

At the door the maid hesitated about admitting her. 
“Sure, the child is lying down with a splitting head¬ 
ache, and told me she would see no one. Mrs. Peters 
has gone to Amity, and there's not a soul in the house, 
and she won’t eat and has been crying herself sick, 
and I am worrit to death over her.” 

“I must see her at once!” and, pushing the girl 
aside, Barbara ran lightly up the stairs to Mary 
Ann’s room. She knocked, but entered without wait¬ 
ing for an answer. Mary Ann was lying on the 
couch, with her head pressed into the pillow, but 
started up, revealing a face swollen and red from pro¬ 
longed crying. When she saw who had entered, she 
lifted herself to her elbow with blazing eyes. 

77 


BARBARA MORRISON 


78 

“How dare you come here, Barbara Morrison? 
Get out of this room and this house this moment.” 

“Oh, Mary Ann,” began Barbara. 

“I won’t listen to a word from you. You are de¬ 
testable, and every girl in school thinks so. You are 
the most self-righteous, ill-natured, disagreeable, hor¬ 
rid girl I ever knew, and I don’t want ever again to 
have anything to do with you. This is my room, and 
I tell you to get out of it! Don’t you hear me?” 

“Yes, but, Mary Ann, I’ve come-” 

“ I know you have come,” the furious girl screamed, 
“and I tell you to go, and you had better do it pretty 
quick too.” She rose threateningly, but sank back 
weak and dizzy. 

“Please listen,” pleaded Barbara. 

“ I won’t,” and she covered her ears with her hands 
and buried her face in the couch-pillow. 

Discouraged, Barbara turned to go, and then re¬ 
membering her mother’s urgency, she dropped on her 
knees beside the couch, pulled Mary Ann’s hands 
away, and said rapidly: 

“Forgive me, forgive me, Mary Ann, for the dread¬ 
ful thing I said this morning. I know now that it 
wasn’t true, but that your father has been perfectly 
splendid and glorious. But even if it had been true, 
it would have been beastly in me to say what I did. 
There, now, I’ve done all I can to make up for it, 
and I’m on my very knees begging you to forgive me.” 

“Why, so you are!” exclaimed the other as she 
again raised herself on her elbow. “I never would 
have believed it possible, Barbara Morrison, that you 
would ever beg any one’s pardon for the wicked, hate¬ 
ful things you love to say.” 



SOME HARD NUTS CRACKED 79 

The other winced and drew back as if struck, but 
she had set her hand to this plough, and was deter¬ 
mined to see the difficult furrow out to its end. 

“You will forgive me then?” she begged. 

“No, I can never, never forgive you,” was the un¬ 
expected reply. 

Barbara’s face reddened, and a sharp retort would 
have slipped from her tongue had she not suddenly 
bethought her that these were her very words to Mrs. 
Gerald. She hesitated, with bowed head, while Mary 
Ann watched her curiously, and then she said slowly 
and reflectively: 

“Well, I don’t believe I would ever forgive you 
either if you had said such a contemptible thing about 
my father.” She lifted her head, rose from her knees, 
and repeated: “Anyway, I’ve done the best I can to 
make up for it.” 

“ No, you haven’t,” sneered the other. “ Not much, 
you haven’t.” 

Barbara looked such an honest surprise that her 
opponent condescended to explain: 

“You know perfectly well, Barbara Morrison, that 
you said what you did before a lot of the girls, and 
now you sneak into my room when there is no one by 
and pretend to beg my pardon, while you leave the 
wicked slander to be repeated by all the girls who 
heard you.” 

“But they didn’t believe it.” 

“How do you know but what they will come to be¬ 
lieve it when they take time to think ? They will say: 
‘ It was hateful of Babs to say it, but she must have 
had some ground. Her father is Mr. Peters’s most 
intimate friend, and she may have got it straight from 


8o 


BARBARA MORRISON 


him.’ And they will tell their fathers and mothers, 
and the whole bunch will discuss it, and then they 
will say to others: ‘ It came straight from Lloyd Mor¬ 
rison’s daughter. Of course she is a hateful young 
minx of a creature, but for all that she would hardly 
be likely to invent such a thing against her father’s 
friend; and, anyway, where there is so much smoke 
there is sure to be some fire.’ So you see, Miss Mean¬ 
ness, you haven’t done so awful much to atone, after 
all.” 

Barbara looked dismayed, and sat thinking; and 
again Mary Ann watched her curiously. 

“Do you mean that you think I ought to tell the 
girls too ?” 

“Well,” was the grim answer, “a really honorable 
person” (and there was an emphasis that made Bar¬ 
bara wince again) “would want to retract the insult 
where she had given it.” 

“Oh, you are hard, Mary Ann Peters. Tenpenny 
tacks and brass nails are nothing to you in hardness,” 
cried Barbara bitterly. 

Mary Ann grinned; she saw she had deeply pierced 
her enemy’s armor of pride; but her mouth only grew 
the more set, and saying coldly: 

“Well, I for one don’t take much stock in your 
amende honorable, Miss Try-to-save-your-own-skin,” 
she lay down upon the couch, deliberately turned her 
back upon Barbara, waved her hand carelessly, and 
added: “ If that’s all you have to say for yourself, you 
might as well be going, Miss Mean-as-you-can-be; 
but please remember that I despise you, and that I 
never want to hear another word from you in my whole 
life; never , never /” 


SOME HARD NUTS CRACKED 


81 


But Barbara did not go. She sat perfectly silent, 
with the marks of a great conflict on her face. Sud¬ 
denly she shivered and, breaking into sobs, cried, 
“I’ll do it to-morrow morning,” and rushed from the 
room. So startled was the other girl that on the im¬ 
pulse she sprang up to check her, and then, sinking 
back, murmured sceptically: 

“No, no; let us wait and see; she’ll never humble 
herself that much.” 

As she fled down the stairs and out of the house, 
Barbara made a mighty effort to control herself, and 
so far succeeded that she emerged upon the street 
outwardly calm though inwardly raging. When she 
had reached the loneliest road she could find, she 
gradually slackened her speed and fell into a painful 
brown study. Many a time she had complained that 
things always went wrong with her when she tried to 
do right, but now it appeared as if everything went 
wrong with her because she was trying to do right. 
Why, she asked, had God allowed her to sin against 
Mary Ann when He knew that she was sincerely 
endeavoring to be good, unselfish, and helpful? It 
was not like expecting Him, as her mother had said, 
to hold up the laws of nature to prevent her illness. 
He could so easily have held her back by some special 
spiritual influence from all of these mistakes she had 
made. 

“I’ve never been in such a dreadful fix in my life 
before,” she muttered. “I didn’t intend to do it; it 
came of itself. Oh, why did He let me ? He could 
have stopped me.” Startled at finding herself actu¬ 
ally calling God to account for her sin, she shrank 
within herself. “Perhaps I have been bad so long 


82 BARBARA MORRISON 

that He doesn’t care any more whether I am good or 
not.” By this time her circuitous route had brought 
her out by the bench where she had sat with her 
father. No one was in sight; so she sat down and 
tried to think of some way out of the tangle. But 
mortification over the past and dread of the morrow 
stifled all connected thought. 

“Oh,” sighed she, “I can’t do anything. I’ll talk 
it over with mother.” 

So she rose and turned toward home, but paused 
and slowly shook her head. 

“I’ve been a perfect nuisance to mother this whole 
week; and she’s feeling so awfully about this Peters 
affair; she’ll be quite desperate if I tell her about 
Mary Ann. It really isn’t fair to worry her any more; 

I won’t tell her a word, not if it kills me.” 

Then an impulse came to her with such a sense of 
relief that she almost said aloud: “ I’ll go back to Mrs. 
Gerald.” 

Mrs. Gerald looked up in surprise when the maid 
ushered Barbara into her cosey sewing-room; then she 
rose quickly and drew her toward an easy chair. 

“What has happened, you poor child?” 

The genuine sympathy of her tone overcame Bar¬ 
bara’s hardly won self-control. But without appear¬ 
ing to notice it, the lady left the room, and soon re¬ 
turned with a tray bearing two glasses of refreshing 
grape-juice and a plate of cookies. 

“There, I was feeling as if I needed something, and 
I think this will be the very thing for us both. Here’s 
to your health and happiness, dear, and the chasing 
away of gloom.” 

She clicked Barbara’s glass with her own, and there 


SOME HARD NUTS CRACKED 83 

was that in her smile that went to the girl’s heart with 
a sense of comradeship and comfort. 

“Oh, Mrs. Gerald, you are too good, and I don’t 
deserve it a bit. I have been horrid to you. Really 
and truly, I never realized before how horrid I was. 

I was so—so—oh, I don’t know how to explain; but 
it was like being so mad through and through that I 
couldn’t seem to see what I was about.” 

“Not another word on that subject. We both per¬ 
fectly understand that bygones are gonebys. And now 
tell me what has happened ? You looked like a ghost 
when you came in.” Then, seeing Barbara s hesita¬ 
tion, she added kindly: “ But don’t tell me a thing if you 
would rather not. Perhaps I was mistaken in think¬ 
ing that something had happened since you left me.” 

“No, you were right,” hesitatingly, “and I do want 
advice very, very much. I was going to talk with 
mother, but I hated to bother her, and then I thought 
of you.” 

Mrs. Gerald suppressed a smile at this naive con¬ 
fession of willingness to save Mrs. Morrison at her 
expense, and asked rather gravely if it were not some¬ 
thing the former ought to be told, but Barbara an¬ 
swered bluntly: 

“Why, I wouldn’t dream of telling you a secret from 
mother. I just love to tell her everything. That’s 
the trouble, I bother her too much. I’ve nearly 
worried her to death over it already this very day, 
and I vowed I wouldn’t say another word to her about 
it, not if I died of it, until it was all over and I could 
treat it as ancient history. You think I was a lot of 
trouble to you, but you just ought to see what a thorn 
in the flesh I am to my blessed mother!” 


84 BARBARA MORRISON 

This was said with such gloomy earnestness that 
Mrs. Gerald laughed outright. 

“ Mydear girl,what a tragedy your mother's life must 
be to have a daughter who loves her so much that she 
can’t keep a secret from her. I am sure your mother 
wouldn’t give up your confidences for the world. I only 
hope my Betty,” glancing at the sofa where a plump 
three-year-old was sleeping, “will bother me in the same 
way. I think it is all the sweeter of you now that I 
know you have planned to ask me about something 
you would rather talk over with your mother.” 

“Yes, indeed, I would!” assented Barbara eagerly. 

“ I feel greatly complimented to be selected as your 
mother’s substitute,” and this time Mrs. Gerald did 
not attempt to conceal her smile. “And now let me 
know how I can help you.” 

Barbara, embarrassed, stammered: “If I tell it 
all— There are so many others mixed up in it— Per¬ 
haps I oughtn’t to tell some—” and she paused in 
perplexity. 

“ I see, it is rather complicated. Perhaps I can help 
you by questions. For instance, how far back does 
the difficulty date?” 

“Why, as far back as when I promised Mrs. Bar¬ 
ton I would be a chink-filler.” 

Then she went on to say that, instead of improving, 
she was growing worse and worse; that temptations 
met her at every step, and conquered her every time; 
that the whole attempt was useless, for she was con¬ 
vinced God himself had given her up, and didn’t care 
to have her good. 

But here Mrs. Gerald interrupted her with an ear¬ 
nest: “Your Father in heaven not care! Impossible, 


SOME HARD NUTS CRACKED 85 

child. Wouldn’t your father on earth care to have 
you good ?” 

Barbara lifted startled eyes. “It nearly kills him 
when I’m bad. Why, he is so sorry for me that—” 
and she checked herself on the verge of repeating 
that never-to-be-forgotten conversation with him. 

“ ‘Like as a father pitieth his children, so the Lord 
pitieth them that fear him,’ ” quoted Mrs. Gerald. 

“What, when I’m bad?” cried Barbara. 

“ I thought you said it was then your father pitied 
you.” 

Barbara struggled with this new idea, and then in¬ 
credulously: “ But why does He let me be bad then ?” 

“Do you want to be good?” 

“Oh, I do. I do .” There was no doubting the sin¬ 
cerity of this yearning cry. 

“Who makes you desire it so ardently? Who 
makes you hate your failures ? Who makes you feel 
such deep self-disgust and shame?” 

“You mean,” and a sweet smile broke over the 
girl’s face, “that my Father in heaven is really ” 
and she paused. 

“Yes, I mean that our Father in heaven gives us 
His Holy Spirit to awaken our longings for holiness, 
and to show us our sinfulness and weakness, so that 
we shall turn from them with true repentance.” 

“But why do I keep getting worse instead of bet¬ 
ter?” persisted Barbara. 

“When I was a little girl, coasting down-hill was 
very easy, but scrambling up-hill was a hard struggle, 
said the lady for answer. Then catching up a spool 
of heavy linen thread, she quickly bound Barbara s 
two hands together and said: “Now break it. 


86 BARBARA MORRISON 

Barbara made vain efforts, and shook her head. 

“It is meant for an illustration I know, but what 
does it mean ?” 

“That not until we try to resist bad habits do we 
know how strong they are; and it is only after repeated 
efforts that we bring enough force to bear upon them, 
and then it hurts; oh, how it hurts !’’ 

Barbara, looking thoughtfully at her hands, tried 
again and again until her wrists were chafed and then 
with a determined effort, snapped them free. 

“You poor child!” exclaimed Mrs. Gerald as a 
drop of blood appeared where the skin had been broken, 
but Barbara laughed joyously. 

“Never mind that, it will be a reminder that as 
long as I really do succeed, no hurt is of consequence.” 

Her face had brightened until she looked like an¬ 
other girl, and her hostess said impulsively: 

“Come back into my class, Barbara!” 

Then a shadow fell, and she shook her head some¬ 
what grimly. 

“No, that would be making things too comfy and 
easy. I don’t like Mrs. Spencer and I don’t like her 
class, but I’m going to stay put and swallow the dis¬ 
agreeables !” 

“Goosey,” said Mrs. Gerald, affectionately giving 
Barbara’s ear a little tweek, “don’t make the mistake 
of courting martyrdom. You will have enough to en¬ 
dure without inviting difficulties. There is no virtue 
in walking over burning ploughshares to goodness 
when you can reach it through green pastures.” 

Barbara looked puzzled, but she also looked stub¬ 
born, so Mrs. Gerald dropped the subject. 

That evening Barbara sat glum and silent, and still 


SOME HARD NUTS CRACKED 87 

more so the next morning. So preoccupied was she 
that she barely noticed that her mother and sisters 
hardly spoke to her, though the former’s glances were 
anxious. But at the door she turned back, blew a 
kiss to Mrs. Morrison, and cried recklessly: 

“I’m going forth to do battle with Apollyon, and 
you may expect me back on a shutter pretty well 
sliced up !” Which enigmatical remark only increased 
the anxiety. 

Barbara gave a little gasp when she found in the 
school coat-room a much larger group than had been 
present at her altercation with Mary Ann. Mary 
Ann’s face lit up with a mocking smile as Barbara, 
walking toward her, began very distinctly, but in a 
voice she had made cold and hard to check its trem¬ 
bling : 

“Girls, especially you who were here when Mary 
Ann and I had our row, I want to tell you that what I 
said to Mary Ann was absolutely without foundation; 
that I know on the best possible authority that Mr. 
Peters has done something so splendid that any girl 
living would be proud of him for a father, even though 
she might prefer to keep her own. It was an abomi¬ 
nable thing for me to say because I heard it from 
Amelia, and we all know that she’s not to be trusted, 
and of all others I ought to have known better than 
to believe anything against my father’s best friend.. I 
am sorry now I didn’t knock Amelia down for saying 
it. I am still more sorry that I didn’t bite off the tip 
of my tongue before repeating it. I went to Mary 
Ann’s house and begged her forgiveness; but she 
didn’t take any stock in my asking private pardon 
for a public insult. So now, Mary Ann, I confess to 


88 BARBARA MORRISON 

you that I was a wicked, cruel girl; won’t you please 
forgive-” 

But the rest remained unsaid, for Mary Ann had 
flung herself upon Barbara’s neck in a passion of com¬ 
punction, crying: 

“ Babs Morrison, I’ll never again say that you’re not 
a Christian. I never, never could have done what you 
have-” 

Barbara disengaged herself and, looking the other 
over appraisingly, said with disconcerting frankness: 

“Well, I don’t believe you could, Mary Ann, for 
you really are as hard as a pound of tenpenny nails 1 

“There, there, you two will get into trouble again 
if you’re not stopped,” and Grace Alden seized each 
by the back of the neck and pushed their faces to¬ 
gether, laughingly urging them to “kiss and be 
friends,” which they did, and were clapped by all the 
other girls, except Amelia, who had slunk out of the 
room. 

“Why,” whispered Grace as she and Barbara went 
out with arms interlaced, “did you drag Amelia into 
the matter?” 

“She put herself into it first of all, and I didn’t 
feel any call to shoulder her share of the mischief.” 

From which it appears that Barbara had not yet 
attained to any great height of magnanimity. 

Later she stopped at Mrs. Gerald’s. “Just to tell 
you,” she explained, “that Mary Ann Peters and I 
are friends; at least Mary Ann is, but I don’t believe 
I shall ever care much for her.” 

“You are not obliged to,” was the laughing reply; 
and immediately Mary Ann seemed less repellent. 

Arrived at home, Barbara stood behind her mother’s 




SOME HARD NUTS CRACKED 89 

chair and, facing her sisters, said defiantly: “I’ve 
begged Mary Ann Peters’s pardon before about twenty 
of the girls, and have explained how fine her father is, 
and she thinks I’m the best ever. So now you needn’t 
treat me like a criminal any longer, for I’ve stood all 
I’m going to!” 

Her mother turned and clasped her in her arms and 
exclaimed with a glance that challenged her other 
daughters: “My darling child, I am proud of you !” 

11 So say we all of us ! ” chimed in Laura. Then they 
all surrounded her and kissed her, and she, feeling 
strangely humble under their approval, colored and 
laughed, and told them not to be silly over it, for of 
course it was the thing to do, only she hoped she 
wouldn’t have to do it again in a hurry. Then she 
hastened to give them an account of the maiden ad¬ 
dress by a visiting member of the school board, and 
did it so comically that her sisters recognized for the 
first time that she, “Barbara, of all persons!” they 
said among themselves, had a true sense of humor. 
But her mother warned her: 

“Take care now that you have bobbed up out of the 
depths not to crack your head against the sky.” 

“Oh, let me go uppity up while I’m about it; you 
know I’ll be down out of sight soon enough.” 

And she spoke prophetically. 


CHAPTER XII 


HAVING GONE UP LIKE A ROCKET, BARBARA COMES 
DOWN LIKE A STICK 

“TAON’T tell me!” exclaimed Amy one afternoon 

B J in a remarkably ferocious voice for her, “that 
there are not malicious spirits around ! If there are 
not, how did it happen that Miss Barns left unfinished 
the very dress I am to wear this evening, and left me 
short on ribbon, buttons, and sewing-silk ? What am 
I to do ? I must sew like mad to get it done even if 
I had the materials, and how am I to get them when 
not one can be bought nearer than Bridgeton ?” 

Her mother and sisters looked up in helpless sym¬ 
pathy. There had been a whirlwind of summer dress¬ 
making in the house for a week, and all were worn out 
with it and the sudden hot wave. 

“You might wear that lovely new spring silk,” 
suggested her mother. 

“Oh, mother, in all this heat! And this thing of 
coolness and beauty so nearly ready! I wonder if 
I could get the ribbon and the rest by telephoning ? 
Do you suppose they would send a messenger with 
them? But even then, how to make sure of the 
color?” 

“Why can’t I go to Bridgeton for them?” asked a 
voice from the adjoining room. 

They could hardly have been more surprised if a 
90 


COMES DOWN LIKE A STICK 


9i 


bomb had exploded, for it was Barbara who spoke; 
Barbara who had never before been known to make 
such an offer; indeed, who always went on an errand 
as if to execution. She now appeared in the doorway 
saying: 

“A train goes in twenty minutes, and if you will 
give me the sample, I can be back in plenty of time 
for you to finish the dress.” 

“You blessed creature,” cried Amy. “Here is your 
sample, but I can’t bear to have you go in this heat!” 

“That’s nothing! What do you want?” 

“Three yards of one-inch ribbon, one spool of silk, 
and one dozen silk buttons, all to match the sample. 
Here, just wait while I write it down for you.” 

“Nonsense; as if I couldn’t remember. One yard 
of ribbon-” 

“No, no; three yards of ribbon, one-” 

“Yes, I know; one spool of thread, and two 
dozen-” 

“No, one dozen buttons,” shrieked Amy after her 
down the stairs, trying to write the order as she vainly 
raced to overtake her, and but half satisfied to stop 
when Barbara called back from the gate the correct 
amounts. 

Once on the train, Barbara began to enjoy herself. 
She did not really mind hot weather, and it was far 
pleasanter going on a shopping trip than trying to 
read while her conscience clamored that she ought to 
be helping with the sewing. Truth to tell, her con¬ 
science had become exceedingly troublesome of late 
by nagging at her to do this and that for others, when 
all she wanted was to do something for herself. Yet 
each yielding to its compulsions gave a stimulus to 



BARBARA MORRISON 


92 

life—a thrill, as if she were on the verge of the great 
adventure; although what the great adventure con¬ 
sisted in she had not an inkling. 

As the train sped on, her self-gratulations at having 
escaped a distasteful service through the substitution 
of a welcome one were interrupted by the entrance 
from the forward car of the “ young man who smiled.” 
She rose and beckoned impulsively, and he courteously 
lifted his hat and came forward. 

“Do tell me,” said she eagerly, “how the poor lame 
boy is? Was he seriously hurt?” 

“ He seems to have fully recovered physically,” with 
a slight emphasis on the last word. 

“So it wasn’t serious, after all?” And Barbara 
dropped back into her seat with a sigh of relief. 

He looked at her speculatively, and then sat down 
in front of her and continued: 

“ In one way it wasn’t serious, but in another it was 
about as serious as it was possible to be.” 

She leaned forward with an “Oh!” which sounded 
like a groan, covered her eyes as if to shut out the 
sight of disaster, and then faced the astonished man 
as she impetuously exclaimed: 

“It can’t be! It can’t be! How can it be when I 
didn’t mean it ? Why, I didn’t really know anything 
about it when I did it! You know I didn’t! You 
said so yourself! Oh, stop looking at me like that; 
you have known all along that I was the one who 
knocked the poor boy down. Or,” with a hopefulness 
that besought confirmation, “perhaps it wasn’t I, af¬ 
ter all ? You said you saw the girl who did it.” 

“ Yes, it was you. But how did you find it out ?” 

“Oh, it came to me that night. I woke up and 


COMES DOWN LIKE A STICK 


93 


found I knew all about it. I suppose the knowledge 
was sent to me as punishment for my carelessness; 
and now I’m being punished worse!” 

In her distress she was oblivious to the fact that 
he was a total stranger; but he, considerably embar¬ 
rassed, said cheerfully, “Oh, no, you mustn’t look at 
it that way,” and began to open the newspaper he 
had drawn from his pocket. Barbara put up a de¬ 
taining hand. 

“Don’t read yet,” she pleaded. “Please, please 
tell me all about it.” 

“But you take it so hard,” he objected. 

“I shall take it a thousand times harder if you 
don’t tell me.” 

Convinced that she spoke truly, he laid the paper 
down. “I suppose,” he ruminated, “the heat makes 
her so excitable, and, after all, she isn’t much more 
than a kid.” 

“In what way was it about as serious as possible?” 
she urged excitedly. 

“There, there, I really can’t talk about it unless 
you control yourself. You know it won’t do for you 
to work yourself into hysterics before all these pas¬ 
sengers; some are beginning to stare already.” 

This had the desired effect, and he proceeded cheer¬ 
fully. 

“The lame boy, Will Parsons by name, was taking 
his examinations for a scholarship in the Amity Tech, 
and had only one more to take; but not being a strong 
fellow, that shake-up put him temporarily out of com¬ 
mission. In fact, the doctor kept him in bed for 
three days; and by that time it was too late for the 
examination, and the scholarship went to another boy 


94 BARBARA MORRISON 

who until then had been out of sight behind him in the 
competition.” 

“ But why can’t he enter without a scholarship ? ” 

“Because his father is a clergyman with a large 
family and a small salary, and can’t afford to pay 
Will’s way through the Tech., and Will hasn’t the 
health to work his way through. 

“It’s a double pity, because he has a genius as well 
as a passion for chemistry; but he has had to give up 
his ambition in that line, and will probably have to 
content himself with night-school study and daytime 
care of a druggist’s soda-water fountain, with nothing 
better to look forward to than being a drug clerk.” 

“Oh, no,” exclaimed Barbara, who had brightened 
as the tale darkened; “my father, Mr. Lloyd Mor¬ 
rison, is the president of the Tech, board of trustees, 
and I am sure he can do something when he gets back 
from Washington. Just give me Will Parsons’s ad¬ 
dress.” 

“Whew!” whistled he, jotting down the address, 
“that sounds something like. And now tell me how 
your patient fares?” 

“My patient?” queried she uncomprehendingly. 

“Yes, Mrs. Martin.” 

“Mrs. Martin?” as uncomprehendingly as before. 

“Yes, the heavy lady whom you stood supporting 
as our train steamed out of Borderville that memo¬ 
rable evening when you distributed knock-down argu¬ 
ments so liberally. Surely you remember.” 

“Oh, that thing!” contemptuously. 

“Yes, that thing!” mimicked he. 

“ I don’t know what has become of her and I don’t 
want to,” retorted Barbara. 


COMES DOWN LIKE A STICK 


95 


“Why this scorn for the heavy lady?” 

“Why, she stood there and whimpered like a baby; 
great big fat thing !” 

“Well, even big fat things have nerves; and her 
acting like a baby would indicate that hers had re¬ 
ceived a severe shock.” 

“That’s just what mother said.” 

“Your mother was right, too. I’m a medical stu¬ 
dent, and it is my special business at present to study 
the effect of nerve-shock. But do you mean to tell me 
seriously that you have made no inquiry as to how 
Mrs. Martin is?” 

“Why, no, why should I ? She was only a coarse, 
common thing, you see.” 

“I see,” exclaimed he indignantly, “that this is a 
case of outright, downright snobbishness.” Then un¬ 
deterred by Barbara’s look of wrath: “Do you think 
that a girl who is rough and heedless is so very much 
superior to her victim just because the latter is un¬ 
couth? If you do, I must say I don’t agree with 
you.” 

Barbara strove to be severe and dignified, but only 
succeeded in being brusque, as she said: 

“ I don’t even know who you are, and you haven’t 
the slightest right in the world to say such things to 
me!” 

“Of course I haven’t; but if you did know me, you 
would be thankful that I don’t say worse things. If 
you are acquainted with Mrs. Gerald of your town, 
you will easily learn that her precious nephew is 
greatly given to the plainest sort of plain speaking.” 

So he was Mrs. Gerald’s nephew ! Truly, the situ¬ 
ation was becoming too much for Barbara, and she 


BARBARA MORRISON 


96 

sprang up and rushed for the door as the train stopped. 
In an instant she was on the platform and hurrying 
up the street, only to discover too late that she had 
dismounted at the wrong station. There was nothing 
for it but to go on by trolley; stifled by dust from 
passing auto-trucks and scorched by the sun; a wailing 
infant on one side, and a sticky child munching pea¬ 
nut brittle on the other. Arrived at Bridgeton, there 
was no time for the leisurely walk through the town 
and the ice-cream soda she had counted upon and 
now felt doubly the need of. She dashed into the 
store and pitched the sample onto the counter. 

“Here,” peremptorily, “ I want right away one yard 
of ribbon three inches wide, three dozen silk buttons, 
and three dozen spools of sewing-silk exactly that 
shade. Hurry, or I’ll miss my train.” 

The saleswoman pounced on the sample. 

“One yard, you said?” 

“Oh, yes, yes; one yard three inches wide.” 

The ribbon was snipped off. 

“Three dozen buttons?” 

“Yes, yes. Didn’t I tell you so? Do hurry.” 

“But are you sure that it was three dozen spools of 
silk you wanted ?” 

“Of course I am. The order was all in threes and 
dozens.” 

“But we only have one dozen,” said the clerk. 

“Well, give me them then; and, for mercy’s sake, 
do hurry. What’s the price?” 

But when told it, Barbara did not have enough 
money. 

“Never mind,” said the saleswoman, “I’ll charge 
it. I knew you the instant you came in; you’re the 


97 


COMES DOWN LIKE A STICK 

daughter of Mrs. Lloyd Morrison, of Borderville, and 
she’s a charge customer.” Then, at the girl’s look of 
surprise: “Oh, I saw you at the station when you 
knocked so many people down. Some folks said a 
clean dozen; but, sakes, how people do talk ! I saw it, 
and it wasn’t a half-dozen. You did it as slick as-” 

But, with one stare of angry amazement, her audi¬ 
ence had fled. It was a decidedly tempestuous Bar¬ 
bara who later burst in upon the peaceful sewers and, 
flinging the parcel into Amy’s lap, exclaimed fiercely: 

“There are your old things; and I never , never , 
never want to go into Campbell’s store again, if I 
live to be a hundred.” 

“ But, Babs,” cried Amy, “ I said three yards of one- 
inch ribbon.” 

“You didn’t say any such thing. I guess I know 
what you said; and I got every single thing except 
the three dozen spools of silk, and I couldn’t get those 
because they only had one dozen in the store. It was 
a most ridiculous order, anyway.” 

And she flung out of the room as tempestuously as 
she had entered, leaving Amy half laughing and half 
crying over the heap in her lap. Mrs. Morrison rose 
and, taking the list Amy had written, followed Bar¬ 
bara. 

“What does this mean?” she asked in much dis¬ 
pleasure. “Amy told you the order plainly enough, 
and everything is wrong.” 

“It isn’t wrong a bit: it’s just exactly as she told 
me,” insisted Barbara. “One yard of three-inch rib¬ 
bon, three dozen buttons, and I told her I couldn’t 
get the three dozen spools of silk because they didn t 
have them.” 


BARBARA MORRISON 


98 

“Barbara,” said her mother, “you are not to con¬ 
tradict in that way. We all heard the order and here 
it is written down, only you wouldn’t take the list. 
You must read this,” continued Mrs. Morrison, as 
the girl turned her back on the paper. Sullenly Bar¬ 
bara did as bidden. 

“Well, anyway,” she stubbornly insisted, “I didn’t 
hear it that way if the rest of you did; and the next 
time Amy can do her own shopping instead of making 
me her pack-horse this blistering hot day. If she 
wasn’t going to be satisfied, she needn’t have made 
me go.” 

Her mother laid a cool hand on the burning fore¬ 
head, and softly turned the averted face toward her, 
and under the searching gaze of those clear eyes the 
proud spirit broke. 

“Oh, don’t look that way, mother; please don’t,” 
and she caught the soft hand and pressed it to her 
lips. “I’ve had such a hideous, hideous time!” 
And she dropped face down on the bed. 

“I was sure something had happened,” soothed 
her mother as she brought a cool wet cloth. “There, 
slip off your dress, and I will darken the room, and 
with this on your forehead you will soon feel better.” 

“Oh, you sweet, sweet saint,” murmured Barbara 
gratefully, “why don’t you ‘trounce’ me?” 

“Nonsense!” was the only answer vouchsafed as 
Mrs. Morrison went out and softly closed the door. 
The next first aid administered was to the greatly 
perturbed Amy. 

“Use the ribbon as a girdle,” her mother sug¬ 
gested, “and give up the little bows; and as long as 
you have enough buttons and silk-” 


COMES DOWN LIKE A STICK 99 

“ Enough ! Oh, motherkins,” and Amy leaned back 
in her chair to laugh, “how can I do without those 
other two dozen spools ? ” And then they all laughed, 
until Susie wiped her eyes, saying: 

“To-morrow I have to go to Bridgeton for my his¬ 
tory lecture, and IT1 take back the superfluity of sup¬ 
plies.” 

Meanwhile Barbara’s heated head and heated feel¬ 
ings cooled rapidly, though disquieting thought made 
calm impossible. 

She reviewed with much mortification the conver¬ 
sation with “the man who smiled.” 

“By this time he’s the man who laughs,” she 
thought, “and he is simply shouting over my ridicu¬ 
lousness. Oh, why am I such a touch-and-go crea¬ 
ture ? Habit again, I suppose. But what is one to 
do with a habit like that, that has you down and 
beaten before you even know it’s around ? Dear me, 
and now I suppose I ought to beg Amy’s pardon for 
my mistake. Oh, I’m sick, sick, sick of begging peo¬ 
ple’s pardon, and I should think they would be sick 
of having me do it. Well, the sooner it’s done the 
sooner it’s over.” 

And she slipped to her feet and went to the door. 

“Amy,” she began almost before she had opened 
the door, “I suppose I ought to beg your pardon for 
my mistakes; so-” 

“No, not at all,” interrupted Amy decidedly. “I 
absolutely forbid it. It would embarrass me most 
horribly, and then I might make the mistake of sew¬ 
ing on these three dozen buttons instead of the one 
dozen needed; and if I did, no punishment would be 
bad enough for you.” 



100 


BARBARA MORRISON 


‘‘Slip into something cool, Barbara,” said Susie 
with her kindly smile, “and come and help us, like a 
dear.” 

“Yes,” said Laura, “do, childie, and I will tell 
you something ever so nice.” 

And Barbara did and Laura did; and the ever-so- 
nice news was that their father was due that evening. 

“And mother and you will have him all to your¬ 
selves,” mourned Amy, “for we shall all be at Mrs. 
Gerald’s to meet that young sprig of a nephew who is 
fitting himself to be a medical missionary.” 

Barbara gasped. 

“What did you say?” asked Amy. 

“I didn’t say anything,” and she went on sewing 
rapidly and thinking more rapidly. 

“What is the dear boy’s name?” drawled Laura, 
but no one knew. 

“ ‘My nephew’ is the only name I’ve ever heard 
him called by,” said Susie, “and I have an idea”— 
and her voice sank to depths of awestruck mystery— 
“that he is all and much—oh, yes, much, much more 
than it is possible for a nephew to be.” 

“You will have to do the talking, Susie,” said Amy. 
“I shall be too ‘scart,’ as Mary says; and Laura says 
she’s too tired. She always declares she can’t talk in 
hot weather.” 

“No,” Laura smiled wanly, “I not only can’t talk 
to the prodigy but I feel as if I shouldn’t be able to 
breathe in the rarified atmosphere of his presence.” 

“Lie down a while, dear,” said her mother anx¬ 
iously; “you are looking very white.” 

“Nothing but white heat, mother; but if it worries 
you, I will rest a while.” 


COMES DOWN LIKE A STICK ioi 


Laura went quickly to her room, snatched at a 
bottle of smelling-salts, and sank onto a couch with 
one hand pressed against her heart and the other 
holding the bottle so that she could inhale deeply. 
Even her lips grew white as she fought against the 
increasing faintness. Then as a touch of color re¬ 
turned to her face, she crept by slow steps to her 
washstand and with trembling hands mixed a dose 
of restorative, then softly but swiftly crept back to 
the couch. A cold dew broke out on her forehead 
and around her lips, and she had to brace the hand 
holding the salts, it shook so. But slowly the gray, 
pinched look passed away, and she breathed more 
evenly. 

“Yes,” she promised herself, “I will see the doctor 
to-morrow,” and so sank into a sleep of sheer ex¬ 
haustion. 


CHAPTER XIII 


BARBARA GETS A NEW LIGHT ON THE MEANING 
OF SERVICE AND TRIES AGAIN 

“ ERA,” said her mother at the supper-table, 



I j “ would it not be better for you to stay home ? 
You certainly look far from well.” 

“Oh,” very carelessly, “you know, mother, how the 
heat always fags me, and now that the breeze has 
sprung up, I shall be quite all right.” And then to 
turn attention from herself: “But, Babs, what’s 
your brown study about ? You’ve not spoken a word 
since we came to the table, and you are not eating a 
mouthful.” 

Barbara colored and began to eat rapidly. 

“ Mother,” said she, “ Mary Ann Peters is becoming 
too attentive. She asked to-day to have her seat 
changed so that she could be next to me, and she 
wrote me two notes. One she gave me herself at 
recess, and the other came in this afternoon mail.” 

“ Dear me, how lover-like,” said Susie. “Were they 
important?” 

“Well, in one she asked me to come back into Mrs. 
Gerald’s Sunday-school class, and in the other she 
asked me to exchange rings. I told her ‘No’ to both. 
I think it’s silly for girls to be wearing each other’s 
rings!” 

If Barbara expected questioning about the Sunday- 
school class, she was disappointed. The atmosphere 


102 


BARBARA GETS A NEW LIGHT 103 

was too oppressive for any of them to take much in¬ 
terest in any topic introduced, except the wish to 
lounge on the piazza in the evening instead of going 
to Mrs. Gerald’s; and the altogether unknown nephew, 
the innocent cause of their discontent, would hardly 
have felt flattered by the unanimous desire that he 
had gone to China or even farther before coming to 
Borderville. Perhaps none of the girls who voiced 
the wish felt it as strongly as Barbara, who sat 
silent. 

In much perturbation she faced the probability 
that Mrs. Gerald’s paragon nephew was “the man who 
smiled.” Why she felt so disturbed or what she 
feared she could not have said; but she vehemently 
regretted her afternoon conversation with him, and 
dreaded what he might betray to her sisters of their 
chance acquaintance. 

Barbara sat in uneasy revery beside her mother on 
the porch until train time, and then started down the 
street to meet her father. As she saw him approach¬ 
ing, a great shyness came over her, the outgrowth of 
that unfortunately dominant self-consciousness which 
unduly magnified the importance of every incident 
connected with herself. Would her father have re¬ 
pented his conversation with her? Would he feel 
that she had, as it were, surprised his hidden feelings, 
and show resentment ? Or was he longing to see this 
daughter, so specially his daughter, as she chose to 
think—longing to hear how she had prospered and 
what had befallen her ? Her steps quickened as she 
imagined his eager interest and craving for informa¬ 
tion. 

“Father!” she cried, as he turned the corner, and 


BARBARA MORRISON 


104 

she flung her arms around him with the embrace of 
exclusive ownership. But he quickly extricated him¬ 
self, and asked in a tone of alarm: 

“Your mother? Is anything the matter?” 

“No, of course not. What made you think so?” 

She tried to take some of his parcels, but he set her 
aside. 

“No, no, I want to get to your mother as soon as I 
can. You’re sure she is all right?” 

Barbara repeated her assurance and her question. 

“Why am I afraid?” he said, and then laughed 
lightly as Mrs. Morrison came in sight descending the 
steps. “Blest if I can tell, unless because it’s the 
first time you ever came to meet me, and that seemed 
ominous. But, then, it’s always so; the last hours of a 
journey are purgatory to me for fear some disaster 
may have overtaken her before I can see her again. 
I haven’t had a thought for a soul but you these 
two days,” he cried as he caught his wife in his arms. 
“This time I was sure something would have gone 
wrong with you just because I was starving for you, 
and it began to seem outside the possibilities of hu¬ 
man felicities that I actually should have you all to 
myself again safe and sound.” 

“Sh-h, you silly fellow,” said Mrs. Morrison 
softly, glancing toward Barbara. 

The latter had paused a moment in astonished si¬ 
lence, and then she picked up the suitcase her father 
had dropped and started for the house. 

So he had not been doing any of the thinking about 
her she had imagined. Probably he had actually for¬ 
gotten their conversation! He wasn’t even pleased 
that she had hurried to meet him, only frightened 


BARBARA GETS A NEW LIGHT 105 

lest it meant bad news of her mother! Why, he didn’t 
care or even know that she, “his so special daughter,” 
was lugging his heavy suitcase! And, worst of all, 
the mother on whom she placed her implicit reliance 
had forgotten all about her, and did not care if she 
did strain herself with her all-too-heavy load. But 
here she was mistaken. 

“Put down the suitcase, Barbara,” called her 
mother; and then remonstratingly: “Really, Lloyd, it 
is much too heavy for her.” 

“Drop it, Babs,” commanded he, “and take these 
bundles. I must have one hand free to hold on to 
your mother and make sure she is not a spectre in her 
white gown.” 

Barbara seized the things he handed her and 
hurried into the house; and, conscious she would not 
be missed, ran up to the upper balcony to face her 
disillusionment. This had been completed by a few 
phrases she had overheard—something about the 
most terrible strain of his life, that he really had for¬ 
gotten there was a person in existence but his wife, 
and had longed insatiably for the strength and com¬ 
fort of her presence to help him through. 

Barbara’s first feeling was wounded affection, the 
next wounded vanity. She began to sink into one of 
her most dismal moods, when her father’s declaration 
of longing again came to mind, and she straightened 
up with the impetus of a new conception. 

Why, yes, that was it; he had not longed for the 
one he had tried to help, but for the one who always 
helped him. Of course that was what she herself did 
when in trouble—she longed for her mother, some¬ 
times for Mrs. Gerald, oftener for Mrs. Barton; and 


io6 BARBARA MORRISON 

if perchance for one of her sisters or a schoolmate, it 
was sure to be the one who had most recently as¬ 
sisted or encouraged her in some way. This, then, was 
the secret of winning love—helpfulness. After all, that 
was what Mrs. Barton had said, and that Jesus had 
come for that purpose, “to minister unto.” Then 
another thought flashed into her mind—that Jesus did 
not minister in order to win love , but because His own 
abounding love had to manifest itself. 

So, then, this was why His gifts were free gifts—not 
even in the coin of love was He bartering for returns. 
She let her mind run down this new roadway of in¬ 
sight, and her next discovery was that her mother’s 
love also was unselfish, never pausing to calculate 
whether ministrations would bring return, and never 
pausing in loving and giving when the return was 
withheld. So, then, was this the way she must do ? 
How stupid she had been not to take in that this was 
exactly what each of them—her mother, Mrs. Bar¬ 
ton, Mrs. Gerald—had tried to show her; while all the 
while she had worked with an eye to some ultimate 
gain to herself in popularity, approbation, or self- 
satisfaction. 

This recognition of her self-seeking motives marked 
an epoch for Barbara, a distinct break with her past 
attitude, and she was so absorbed in the novelty of 
thoughts with nothing of self in them that for a few 
moments she did not notice that a carriage had 
stopped before the house. Then the confusion of 
voices aroused her. A gentleman had just helped 
Susie out of the carriage, and her mother’s alarmed 
voice was questioning and Susie replying that it was 
nothing to be alarmed about, but Laura had had a 


BARBARA GETS A NEW LIGHT 107 

fainting turn at the piano. Then Laura was helped 
up the steps, saying in a tremulous voice: “Only the 
heat, mother dear; I’ll be all right in a moment.” 

Barbara sped down the stairs, but immediately 
shrank back into a dark corner of the hall, for the 
gentleman who with her father was supporting Laura 
to the living-room couch was “the young man who 
smiled.” Laura sank among the pillows, looking very 
white but bravely laughing as she extended her hand, 
saying: 

“Thank you so much. I am repenting in sackcloth 
and ashes for having made such a nuisance of myself. 
You’ve been too good, Mr. Sargeant.” 

“Oh, I’m the one to do the repenting,” asserted he. 
Then to Mrs. Morrison: “She had already played sev¬ 
eral times and I begged her for a special favorite. I 
ought to have seen how tired she was; but I get fairly 
music-mad when I listen to such an artist.” 

“ Come in some time when it is not so hot and I will 
give you all you can stand,” promised Laura. 

The next day was cool and bright, and Laura de¬ 
clared “she felt as good as new,” though her frequent 
resort to the couch belied her words. Barbara gath¬ 
ered from their reports that her sisters had found Mrs. 
Gerald’s nephew, young Bob Sargeant, quite worthy 
of his aunt’s praise. Seemingly, he had not men¬ 
tioned having met Barbara. 

“He kept looking at you, Amy,” teased Susie. 

“It didn’t prevent his talking a lot with you, and 
quite devoting himself to Laura.” 

“To Laura’s music, you mean,” corrected the latter. 

“And he would have talked to you too, Amy, if 
you had let him,” persisted Susie. “What made you 


io8 BARBARA MORRISON 

so very offish?—you who are the social star of the 
family.” 

But Amy could give no reason except that having 
heard him so much lauded had prejudiced her, and 
that she greatly objected to his name “Bob”; it 
seemed so disrespectful to his calling. 

A few days later Barbara started out to seek the 
abode of Mrs. Martin’s nephew and fulfil her long- 
neglected duty of inquiring after that injured lady. 
By good luck she found the nephew in the same spot 
she had found him before, and, as then, engaged in 
unhitching his horse. 

“Oh,” he greeted her with twinkling eyes, “so 
you’re the young lady boss who made Aunt Louizy 
so all-fired mad; said she’d never been sassed like you 
did in her whole blessed life before. I jest this minet 
see her off on the train.” 

“Has she been here again?” asked Barbara with 
flushed cheeks. 

“Agin! Why, she ain't been away till to-day.” 
Then seeing the girl’s surprise, he cheerfully continued: 
“She was pretty bad hurt; I can tell you that ’tain’t 
no joke for a hefty party like she is to be knocked 
about. For one while me an’ my wife thought she 
was going to be bedrid on our hands. But she started 
off pretty spry this afternoon, and I guess ’tain’t 
muchn now but a touch of rheumatiz that ails her. 
The young fellar that helped her onto the train called 
a day or two back, and, gee, but she was glad to see 
him. Did you know he was going to the heathen 
Chinee to practise medicine on their bodies and souls ? 
Too bad, I say, to fling away good American manhood 
like that, and I told him so. And would you believe 


BARBARA GETS A NEW LIGHT 109 

it,” and he chuckled with keen relish of the argument, 
“he argufied till he convinced us all it was just a 
ge-lo-o-rious thing for him to do, and my wife made 
him stop talking; said she was scart he’d get me to 
come hiking after him.” 

Babs’s color came and went. “Did Mrs. Martin 
talk with him?” 

“Did she? You bet she did. Had it all out about 
the gal that knocked her flat, and then all about you, 
and how you ordered her about and told her if she 
didn’t shet up you’d leave her to herself.” 

“I never told her to ‘shut up,’” cried the girl 
angrily, “and your aunt is a dreadful old woman to 
tell such lies!” 

“Now,'now, miss,” said the nephew, shaking his 
head, “p’raps you didn’t use them identical words, 
but it was the sense of it she was gittin’ at, and you 
sure did give the poor old thing the rough side of 
your tongue.” 

“Not one bit more than she deserved,” and with 
head held high Barbara quickly walked away. 

“Sho’, now,” said he with again the twinkle in his 
eye, “I’ve went and made you mad.” But she did 
not turn, and he chuckled unrepentedly as he remarked 
to his horse: “Wall, Sal, these female gals is the limit. 
Big and little, old and young, thick and thin, the 
limit, I say.” 

Meanwhile Barbara was seething with angry dis¬ 
gust. How could she have let the creature go on? 
Why hadn’t she walked away at once? And why 
should just that one little (well, perhaps not exactly 
little, but certainly unimportant) act of carelessness 
on her part have had such persistent power to fol- 


no 


BARBARA MORRISON 


low and make her miserable? And why, above all 
things, was it continually setting her in the worst 
possible light before the man with a name that Amy 
had declared disrespectful to his calling ? She didn’t 
care a straw for him, but if he repeated all this to his 
aunt, where was her standing with that lady, for 
whose good opinion she was becoming increasingly 
desirous? So she wandered toward home in fret¬ 
ful disquietude, until, arriving at her father’s office, a 
sudden impulse made her enter. Mr. Morrison looked 
up in surprise. 

“Father,” she began diffidently, “forgive me for 
interrupting you, but I thought you’d be coming 
home to dinner soon, and perhaps you’d let me walk 
with you. I have something in particular I want to 
ask you about.” 

He glanced at the pile of papers before him, and 
then sweeping them into a drawer and turning the 
key, he said: 

“You’re a blessed interruption, Babs. I was posi¬ 
tively worked out and was only muddling things. Yes, 
come along; we’ll go the longest way ’round and get the 
cobwebs blown out of our brains down by the river.” 

All Barbara’s discontent fell away and, full of de¬ 
lighted pride at her father’s reception of her, she al¬ 
most danced at his side. 

“Now,” said he, “out with it,” and he smiled down 
at her with a new glow at his heart that this hardest- 
to-understand daughter had of her own will appealed 
to him. Encouraged by his cordiality, but still fal¬ 
tering not a little, the girl told very humbly of the 
discovery that she had thrown the lame boy down 
and of the sad result to him. 


BARBARA GETS A NEW LIGHT m 


“I thought, father, that you would be sure to 
think of some way in which I could make it up to 
him. It makes me miserable to even think of his dis¬ 
appointment.” 

“And you want to be relieved of your misery?” 

There was a tone in his voice that made her look 
up quickly, but his face was turned away. 

“After all, though,” he added musingly, “I don’t 
know as there is any harm in that.” 

“No, father,” said she earnestly, “that isn’t the 
reason. I do care a lot more to have something done 
for the poor fellow.” The tears had filled her eyes. “It 
is bad enough to be a cripple, without having all his 
ambitions smashed by my horrid, horrid carelessness.” 

Her father looked down tenderly. 

“You’re right, my darling, and I think I can help 
here.” 

“I knew you would,” and she seized and kissed his 
hand. “You are president of the board of trustees; 
can’t you make them give him another chance for 
the scholarship?” 

He shook his head, and she looked very downcast. 

“That would not be just to the boy who has gained 
it,” he said. “Leave it to me.” She showed such 
disappointment that, rather hurt, he asked: “So you 
really can’t trust me, Babs, after all?” 

“Oh, I can, I can.” 

“I will take the train and run down and see his 
father this evening,” he went on. 

“Oh, can’t I go with you?” 

He shook his head and laughed, and pinched her ear. 

“No, Miss Bother, you have created enough com¬ 
plications already.” 


112 


BARBARA MORRISON 


“What would he say,” thought she, “if he knew 
about Mrs. Martin too?” 

“Now let us talk about other things,” and he 
questioned, discussed, and jested with her until Bar¬ 
bara did not wonder that Amy clung to him as she 
did, but did wonder that she herself had never be¬ 
fore discovered what a delightful companion her 
father could be. And so they came home to Mrs. 
Morrison on the porch, and brought a smile of extreme 
content to that weary lady’s face. 

That evening Mr. Morrison saw the young cripple’s 
father, and the eventual result was that the boy had 
another, and this time a brilliantly successful, chance 
to secure a scholarship. Not, of course, the one he had 
lost, but an entirely new one, which as president of 
the board of trustees Mr. Morrison had contemplated 
founding for some months, but could not decide how 
it should be limited. Now it was established as a 
second chance for those who, through evident and un¬ 
avoidable misfortune, had failed to gain the first 
scholarship. 

“I call it,” said he, “the Pick-me-up-and-try-again 
Scholarship; but I believe the Greek professor is going 
to think up some less brief and less comprehensible 
name for it. But no name that he can invent will 
befog its intent as long as it is so clearly set forth by 
the circumstances surrounding the case of the first 
winner.” 

With a reassuring glance at Barbara’s questioning 
face: “I explained these circumstances to be an ac¬ 
cident which unfitted him to finish an exam, so well 
begun as to guaranty his having otherwise gained the 
first scholarship.” 


CHAPTER XIV 


BARBARA BECOMES ACQUAINTED WITH MARK 
LOAD was lifted from Barbara’s mind which 



made her enough less preoccupied to take some 
note of what was going on about her, and thus it be¬ 
fell that returning from school the next day she ob¬ 
served Laura slowly descend the steps from the 
doctor’s office, walk unsteadily, and stop to support 
herself by a neighboring gate. Barbara quickened 
her pace. “What’s the matter, Laura?” she called, 
and wondered at the nervous start and sudden 
shrinking of her sister, and more still at the trouble of 
her face. 

“Oh, Babs,” faltered she, “I had hoped no one 
would find out that I had been to the doctor’s. 
Promise me you won’t tell mother; it will worry her 


so. 


Barbara promised readily enough, though she added: 

“She will see right away, though, that something 
is the matter; you look like a ghost.” 

Laura forced a light laugh. “That is because you 
startled me. Perhaps, after all, it is well you saw me, 
for I suppose I must have some one to help me keep 
my secret, and, really, I don’t know any one better 
than you. Don’t even let the girls know, will you, 
dear?” 

This was both interesting and flattering to Barbara, 


BARBARA MORRISON 


114 

who could not remember that any of her sisters had 
ever before intrusted her with even a shared secret, 
let alone a secret that only she was to know the exist¬ 
ence of; so she promptly promised, and quite tenderly 
took Laura’s arm to help her feeble progress. 

“I have been having these faint turns,” continued 
the latter, “for some time, and while I did not believe 
it was anything serious, they were rather dreadful 
sensations, and I had decided to consult Doctor 
Hudson, even before I made a spectacle of myself at 
Mrs. Gerald’s. Oh, that was such a mortification, I 
can’t bear to think of it!” 

“Then don’t,” advised the other sagely, “but tell 
me what the doctor said.” 

Laura answered with carefully chosen words: 

“He said I had been practising too much, and gen¬ 
erally overexerting myself, principally with my music, 
and that I had—well, I suppose you might say, come 
to the end of my capital of strength; and now must 
give up and just lounge about—really do nothing 
but be lazy—the miserablest sort of life to lead, and 
I’m disgusted with him and horribly disgusted with 
myself.” And she looked it. 

“But I don’t think that is so much that you 
shouldn’t want to tell mother.” For while Barbara 
wished no ill to Laura, she was disappointed that the 
secret was, after all, so unimportant; she had expected 
at the least that tuberculosis might be threatening, 
or perhaps some strange, mysterious disease. 

“Mother has enough to worry her,” said Laura. 
“Haven’t you noticed how she watches father, and 
how very silent he is; hardly eats at all, and hurries to 
his office or locks himself in his study?” 


BECOMES ACQUAINTED WITH MARK 115 

No, Barbara had not noticed, but now recalled the 
frequent oblivion on the part of both parents to any¬ 
thing going on about them; her mother so often 
closeted with her father, or walking to and from the 
office with him, and pacing the porch with him till 
far into the night. It was only the night before that, 
sleepily turning, she had heard their steps, and a long 
time after had awakened to hear them again. 

“Do you think anything dreadful is the matter?” 
she asked, now thoroughly alarmed. 

“No, but I am sure father has some troublesome 
business problems on hand, and that mother is try¬ 
ing to help all she can because she is afraid he may 
have another breakdown. In many ways father has 
had a very hard life of it. You are too young to re¬ 
member, as I can, what a tremendous amount of work 
and worry he has put in to bringing up this family. I 
am so glad that Mark is old enough and capable 
enough to be the help he is. Don’t look so downcast, 
childie; it is by no means the first time mother has 
helped father in business; and of course now that 
Mark is away, her help is all the more needed.” 

Barbara walked on silently, filled with self-reproach 
that she had been the one to have added to her father’s 
cares so soon after he had returned home. At last 
she said fervently: 

“Laura, I’ll do everything I can. I’ll look after 
you and wait on you as if I were a trained nurse, so 
that neither mother nor father shall have an atom more 
anxiety.” 

Laura visibly brightened, and while she assured 
Barbara that such overcarefulness might provoke the 
very notice she desired to avoid, she acknowledged 


n6 BARBARA MORRISON 

that she might be obliged to make a sort of “lady in 
waiting” of her. She warned her that if she did, it 
would be much against her own will and only be¬ 
cause the doctor had been so strict and specific in his 
orders—she was not on any pretext to touch the 
piano till he saw her again, was not to walk farther 
than his office at any one time, was not to go up¬ 
stairs more than once in two hours, and then very 
slowly, and by no chance was to mount two flights in 
succession, etc., etc. 

“So, childie,” with a pleading look, “you won’t 
get impatient and feel that I am just lazy and selfish 
if I do ask you to do considerable running for me, 
even when I look well and plenty able to wait on my¬ 
self?” 

Barbara scoffed at such an idea, and really felt of 
considerable importance to have become so necessary 
to Laura. But with this slight admixture of self- 
glorification there was also a generous glow that 
proved her sincere entrance upon the pathway of 
service. 

“A really, truly chink-filler,” she smiled to herself. 

That very evening she had an opportunity to exer¬ 
cise her office in an unexpected way. Laura was ly¬ 
ing on the couch in the living-room while all the rest 
but Barbara sat on the cool piazza. The latter stood 
by the living-room window, neither willing to leave 
Laura alone nor yet to be shut out from the family 
chatting. Mark had returned home that evening, 
and while she and he had ignored each other, not even 
exchanging greetings, she felt the flutter of excite¬ 
ment among the others, and wanted to hear what he 
was telling them of his trip. Mr. Morrison had sunk 


BECOMES ACQUAINTED WITH MARK 117 

into silence, and after watching him a while his wife 
called: 

“I believe a little music would do us all good. 
Laura, won’t you favor us ? ” 

Laura immediately started to rise, saying: “Of 
course, if you won’t ask for anything elaborate.” 

But Barbara forestalled her with the words: “Oh, 
mother, won’t you let me play that last piece Laura 
taught me? If,” deprecatingly, “father won’t think 
it a bore to listen to it. I have so wanted to know if 
he thought I would ever make anything at music, and 
Laura says this is a good test piece. Would it bore 
you too awfully much, father?” 

Her father roused himself to answer with a show of 
interest, for it was a new thing for this daughter to 
make a bid for his approval. 

“It will be far from a bore if it isn’t that classic 
tune I played myself when a boy. I used the index- 
finger of both hands, and first played up the piano, 
singing: 

‘ Oh, do you know the muffin man, 

Oh, do you know his name, 

Oh, do you know the muffin man, 

Who lives in Lundy’s Lane ? ’ 

and then I played down the piano, and sang: 

‘ Oh, yes, I know the muffin man, 

Oh, yes, I know his name, 

Oh, yes, I know the muffin man, 

Who lives in Lundy’s Lane.’ ” 

“Why, father,” cried Barbara joyously, “I remem¬ 
ber you playing that for me when I was almost a 
baby, and I thought it and you too perfectly wonder¬ 
ful.” 


n8 BARBARA MORRISON 

“Evidently admiration was easily earned in those 
days,’' said he regretfully. 

“I wish I could hope,” continued she shyly, “that 
you will care for my playing as much. I learned it 
just for you. I will see if I can play it so that you 
will recognize it.” 

He did at once as one of his favorites; and while 
it gave his aesthetic sense a sharp pang that Barbara 
should merely play what Laura had interpreted with 
wondrous insight and skill, it touched him that she 
should have remembered his preferences and should 
have toiled to gratify them. It was, after all, only toil 
that her playing evinced, but good honest toil, and 
the result was a remarkably correct rendition, with a 
remarkable absence of the soul of music. Her father 
had come inside to listen, and now sat puzzling his 
brain as to what he should say that would gratify 
without misleading her. With the last note she whirled 
around on the piano-stool for his verdict. So he 
freely expressed his appreciation of her efforts, 
praised her accuracy, but added that of course she 
couldn’t ever expect to approach Laura. 

“ No, if I practised my fingers to the bone, I couldn’t 
come within earshot of Laura; and if I studied my 
eyes out of my head, I couldn’t have a mind like 
Susie; and if I followed all the beauty directions in 
all the magazines, I couldn’t become a beauty like 
Amy; so it’s no use trying to be or to do anything /” 
And she snatched the music from the rack and flung 
it petulantly onto the stand. 

“You are right,” said her father in the cold, hard 
tone every such display of angry envy called forth. 
“You can never expect to excel where they do; you 


BECOMES ACQUAINTED WITH MARK 119 

haven’t their gifts. As for beauty, if you wear that 
sort of an expression, your face will become absolutely 
ugly. And if you do give up trying to advance in 
music and study, you will fail of even the moderate 
cultivation and intelligence you might attain to.” 

Barbara had turned her back and was drooping 
dejectedly over the keys—so dejectedly, indeed, that 
Mr. Morrison’s voice took on a milder tone. 

“You can no more become remarkable in your 
sisters’ lines than I can become a millionaire, or a 
political leader, or an orator, or a remarkable any¬ 
thing that I might worthily aspire to become.” 

“Father,” remonstrated Susie, for she and Amy 
had come in, “you know that that commercial anal¬ 
ysis you prepared for the government was remarkable, 
and you can’t say it wasn’t.” 

“That,” said he, “was the result of hard, con¬ 
scientious labor. It called for nothing but honest 
research, careful collation of facts, patient calcula¬ 
tion, and assiduous attention at every point. Those 
are all moral qualities, and just such as we every one 
should bring to every sort of work we undertake. 
No, I recognize that there are thousands of humans 
possessing five to ten talents apiece, while I have but 
one—and my one talent is a certain sort of clear¬ 
headedness that fits me for research and analytical 
work.” 

“Well, I have only one talent too,” said Laura. 

“And I,” “ And I,” chimed in Susie and Amy. 

Their father shook his head. 

“There’s where you are mistaken, and if you do not 
take a correct account of your stock in trade you are 
bound to neglect some of your talents. Laura s 


120 BARBARA MORRISON 

musical gift is really a collection of gifts; a musical 
temperament, a discriminating ear, a wonderful knack 
at fingering, and a lot of other things. Each one of 
these should help her in other lines than music. Her 
ear should make her very keen in reading human 
moods and needs from the human voice; her fingers 
ought to be deft at many other things than the piano, 
and so with all the other gifts. With Susie it is 
similar; an extraordinarily retentive memory, a logical 
aptitude that leads her instinctively from point to 
point, a broad-mindedness that carries her right 
through difficulties where others flounder, etc. So 
with Amy; it is not only beauty of contour, color, 
and feature; she has also grace and graciousness, a 
natural taste in dress, an unerring social tact, a musi¬ 
cal laugh, a sense of humor.” He paused, smiling at 
Amy, who with ecstatically clasped hands drank in 
his words. 

“ More, more,” she pleaded. “Oh, if those silly 
boys knew how to say the perfectly delicious things 
that you say, father, I would drop into the mouth of 
every single one of them like a ripe plum.” 

But he was now thoughtfully regarding the droop¬ 
ing Barbara, and went on kindly: 

“ I rejoice in my three gifted daughters, but I must 
confess that it is a great comfort to a one-talented, 
every-day sort of old fossil like myself to have the 
support and countenance of one daughter not thus 
gifted and a merely one-talented son.” 

The girls began to clamor against this designation 
of Mark, who stood in the doorway with his arm 
around his mother, but he shook his head at them. 

“ Dad is right,” he said. “ I’ve only one talent, and 



BECOMES ACQUAINTED WITH MARK 121 

that’s a bulldog tenacity of purpose. But for that 
I’d have flunked in studies, athletics, and every 
other blessed thing I’ve undertaken in college or out 
of it. I make mistakes by the thousands, and other 
fellows can cover miles while I’m covering a rod; but 
I won't give up and I won't be beaten by them or by 
circumstances, or by my own blamed blockheaded- 
ness.” 

His father smiled. “Yes,” said he judicially, 
“Mark’s talent will make a success of him yet, and I 
expect to live to see it!” 

“You’re a wonderful success already, boy, with 
your mother,” whispered the latter in her son’s ear. 

Hereupon Barbara, finding herself forgotten, whirled 
around and announced: 

“Well, I’ve a talent too. Mrs. Barton said I had.” 
And then defiantly: “Mrs. Barton said I had a talent 
for making people happy ! So there !” 

A blank silence fell, and then Mark broke it with 
cruel laughter and still more cruel words. 

“Good heavens! she must be a wizard if she’s 
found that out. As far as your family is concerned, 
you’ve wrapped your talent in dozens of napkins and 
buried it in the deepest depths.” 

It was Mary Ann’s taunt of the concealed halo re¬ 
peated. But his sister stood up and faced him, al¬ 
though she had to hold fast to the piano, and, look¬ 
ing directly into his eyes, she said slowly and clearly: 

“Mark Morrison, if I become a perfect seraph of 
loveliness, it won’t be because you ever lifted a finger 
to help me. And if I become the most devilish girl in 
this town, part of it’ll be on you. When I was little 
you used to pester me to make me mad, and then 


122 


BARBARA MORRISON 


laugh at me; and since I’ve been bigger, you’ve hardly 
noticed my existence, and have never but once done 
a single kind thing, and that was when you sent me 
the snowdrop.” 

Then she disappeared into the next room. 

“Son,” said his father (oh, how Mark hated that 
“son” when his father disapproved), “the next time 
hit a fellow your own size!” and he passed on into 
the library. His wife turned to follow, but whispered 
first: 

“Oh, my boy, my boy, how could you be so cruel!” 

“Whew!” and Mark dropped into the rocker his 
father had vacated and looked around upon his un¬ 
smiling sisters. “Go it, girls, say your say. I’m 
ready for any bouquets you want to throw me.” 

“Poor, dear Babs,” said Laura, almost crying for 
sympathy. “She is trying so hard, and does so many 
sweet things!” 

“Yes,” mocked Mark, “such as the sweet things 
she said to Mary Ann Peters!” 

But Amy eagerly broke in with the account of the 
public apology. 

“Well,” acknowledged her brother, “that’s a pretty 
handsome thing to have done, and seems to indicate 
that her stock is really looking up. Come on, Sue, 
out with it! You haven’t said anything, but you are 
looking volumes!” 

“I’m afraid, Mark,” she answered regretfully, 
“that Babs is more than half right in what she said. 
You did use to tease her unmercifully. You know 
yourself you used to be punished for it.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” very meekly, “I do assure you I 
can’t disremember those punishments.” 


BECOMES ACQUAINTED WITH MARK 123 

“Then,” continued Susie, “when you went to 
college, Babs made a regular hero of you, and watched 
for your home-comings like a devoted little spaniel, 
although, except to snub her, you never noticed her 
at all, and you’ve gone on that way ever since.” 

Mark had planted his elbows on his knees and, 
leaning his forehead on his hands, was gazing on the 
floor. A short silence followed Susie’s words, and 
then he asked very seriously: 

“Do you two others agree with Sue?” 

Very reluctantly Amy had to acknowledge that she 
feared it was all true, and Laura tried to mollify her 
agreement by the kindly words: 

“But of course you didn’t mean to hurt her, boy; 
it was only because you didn’t think.” 

“That’s a pretty rotten kind of an excuse, Laura; 
one of the sort that accuses more than it excuses.” 
And he gave further study to the rug pattern. 

Now while Barbara was out of sight in the next 
room she was by no means out of hearing; and find¬ 
ing herself so well defended, a certain glad exultation 
came over her which steadied the thoughts and 
nerves that Mark’s onslaught had thrown into con¬ 
fusion. She looked at the clock. Yes, it was time 
for Laura’s medicine; so with the dose she returned 
to the silent group, saying in a tone of which the 
gentleness testified to her gratitude: 

“Here’s your tonic, darling, and aren’t you getting 
overtired ? ” 

Mark looked up curiously and watched her make 
Laura comfortable in a reclining position, then: 

“See here, kid, you seem to be getting to be some 
nurse, eh ?” 


BARBARA MORRISON 


124 

But she ignored his advances. 

'‘Come on, kid, don’t be snippy. Let’s make up 
and be friends.” 

Then she turned and faced him, but only answered, 
“Well?” in a tone and with a look of expectation. 

“‘Well’ what?” asked he, perplexed. 

“Well, how are you going to begin making up and 
being friends?” Then seeing that he stared uncom- 
prehendingly, she explained: “7 haven’t done any¬ 
thing to hurt you or to make up about. It has all been 
on your side.” 

“ My word! but you do take yourself seriously, 
kid. How about those few remarks you made before 
vanishing?” 

“They were the simple plain truth; weren’t they, 
girls?” 

Her sisters were both amused and indignant; they 
felt that Mark needed a shaking up to make him take 
the initiative properly, while they also felt that Bar¬ 
bara was hardly justified in expecting too humble a 
reparation from an elder brother. But Susie, the 
judicial, answered: 

“They were certainly ‘plain’ enough, but they 
weren’t the ‘simple truth,’ because there was exag¬ 
geration, although in the main they were the truth. 
But they were not the truth spoken in love.” 

“No,” said Barbara. “It wasn’t speaking the 
truth in love. I used to idolize Mark, but I don’t 
honestly think I love him a little bit now.” She 
looked him over thoughtfully. “I used to think him 
so handsome, but, after all, he isn’t particularly hand¬ 
some. Father himself says he’s only a one-talented 
fellow, and I had considered him ten-talented at the 


BECOMES ACQUAINTED WITH MARK 125 

least; and he isn’t even kind, and has no sense of 
noblesse oblige whatever.” 

Mark became at first furiously red, and then the 
humor of the situation overcame him, and he threw 
back his head and laughed so contagiously that they 
all four joined in, and every one was the better for it. 
He rose and put his hands on his youngest sister’s 
shoulders, and said quizzically and almost affection¬ 
ately : 

“Kid, it’s a comedy to see you sitting in judgment 
on your Big Brother. (Big and Brother both spelled 
with capitals, mind you.) But I’m afraid you are 
right, and that those capitals stand also for Brute and 
Bully. But there are capital B’s to your title too, 
my lady. You were a Brave Brick to beg that catty 
Mary Ann’s pardon, and I’ll not fall short of your 
example. Please forgive all of Big Brother’s Bully¬ 
ing, Brute Badness. Please now, like a ducky dar¬ 
ling. You’re a sharp little fighter, sis, and I’d rather 
have you fight on my side than against me.” 

He had his arm around her waist, and though there 
was much mischief in his eyes, there was something 
also that answered her question even while she asked 
it: 

“Are you in earnest, Mark?” 

“Never more so,” affirmed he, and so she said she 
would forgive him, but said it with by no means the 
dignity she would have liked. How could she be dig¬ 
nified when before the words were out of her mouth 
he had given her a rousing kiss, and then whirled her 
around the room regardless of tables and chairs, out 
through the hall onto the piazza and down the steps 
to the sidewalk, and down a block of that before, 


126 BARBARA MORRISON 

breathless and in terror of a tumble, she released her¬ 
self. 

“Mark/’ she cried, “the neighbors will think you’ve 
gone crazy!” 

“Who cares if they do ?” retorted he. “ Kid, I dare 
you to race me down the hill.” 

Her look accepted his challenge, and in an instant 
they were flying down the hill, until Barbara, a clear 
foot ahead of him and unable to stop, flung herself 
into Bob Sargeant as he turned the corner. 

He had extended his arms for self-protection, so 
that she was in them practically clasped to his breast 
as he staggered backward striving with all his strength 
to keep both her and himself from falling. 

“Oh, Doctor Sargeant!” she cried in an agony of 
embarrassment; but he mistook the situation and, 
thrusting Barbara behind him, advanced toward Mark 
with a stormy brow and a threatening fist. 

“What do you mean, you young blackguard you, 
chasing a girl like that?” 

Mark, at first greatly astonished, burst into a 
guffaw of laughter, but Barbara, who saw determina¬ 
tion in the other’s attitude, caught his arm and clung 
to it while she tried to explain and to introduce the 
two. 

“ Oh, your brother ? Of course that puts a different 
complexion on it,” and the two young men shook 
hands laughingly, and as the three ascended the hill 
Sargeant glanced at the girl: 

“No malice borne, I hope, past or present?” he 
queried. 

“Why did you call on Mrs. Martin?” she asked 
stiffly. 


BECOMES ACQUAINTED WITH MARK 127 

His eyes twinkled. 

“You interested yourself in my protege, why 
shouldn’t I interest myself in yours?” 

“ I hunted up her nephew myself and he told me 
what scandalous lies she told you!” 

“It’s true that the old lady was a little peppery; 
but I took it all with a big pinch of salt, so we had 
the balancing condiment, and no harm was done.” 

Then he devoted himself to becoming acquainted 
with Mark, and to relating that he was now pursuing 
medical studies under Doctor Hudson, so as to get 
some all-round helpful practice. 

“The doctor sends me around town and country— 
principally country—to keep track of his patients, so 
that he can give more of his own time to the serious 
cases. That is why,” turning to Barbara, “I am on 
my way to ask after Miss Laura.” 

“Why, is there anything the matter with Laura?” 
asked Mark, while Barbara strongly desired to choke 
their indiscreet companion. 

He saw his mistake and extricated himself by 
claiming Laura as a special case of his own on ac¬ 
count of the first aid to the injured he had rendered 
the evening at his aunt’s house. “The innermost 
fact is,” he went on, “your sister promised then to 
give me all the music I could stand some day, and I 
was on my way to ask her how soon I could come for 
it when Miss Barbara caromed into me.” 


CHAPTER XV 


BARBARA IS UNPREPARED WITH THE WORD IN 
SEASON 

O NE morning Barbara found her schoolmates as¬ 
sembled in groups before the school doors, dis¬ 
cussing the notice posted on them that, owing to an 
outbreak of scarlet fever, school would be closed for 
the present. 

They were asking each other, “Have you had it?” 
or were telling the names of those down with it, and 
that one from their own class had died the night be¬ 
fore. Many looked anxious and frightened, while 
others made merry over this prospect of an impromptu 
vacation. 

Among the former was Mary Ann Peters. She 
clutched Barbara’s arm and drew her aside. 

“Oh, Babs, Pve never had it, and I’ve always been 
so afraid of it. If I get it, I know I shall die!” 

Barbara, who had had it years before, felt consider¬ 
able contempt for the terrified Mary Ann. 

“There’s nothing to be so frightened over,” she 
said impatiently. 

“But I can’t help it. I’m frightened out of my 
wits!” 

“You’d better do your best to help it. Mother 
says that one is much more likely to have a conta¬ 
gious disease one is afraid of, because fear is weaken¬ 
ing and uses up resisting force.” 

128 


BARBARA IS UNPREPARED 


129 

“Then,” said the despairing girl, “I’m perfectly 
sure, sure, sure to have it, and I’ll die; I know I shall.” 

She had dragged Barbara along with her toward her 
home. 

“Oh, Babs,” she whispered, “I’m horribly afraid 
to die.” 

“Oh, you won’t die,” said Barbara petulantly, try¬ 
ing to wrench herself free from the clinging hands, 
and finding Mary Ann’s fear uncomfortably conta¬ 
gious. “People never do die when they imagine 
they’re going to.” 

But this assertion rang false in her own ears and 
much more so in those of her companion. 

“Please, please don’t leave me,” pleaded the latter. 
“I’ve known you were a Christian ever since you 
begged my pardon before the girls, and I want you to 
tell me how to be one.” 

If the heavens had fallen, Barbara could hardly 
have been more amazed and dismayed. Did she 
indeed know how to become a Christian? Was she, 
after all, sure that she herself was one ? What could 
she say to this trembling, pleading girl? What she 
did say was to ask her weakly if she hadn’t better 
stop in and talk with the minister. But Mary Ann 
bluntly refused. 

“You know me, and he doesn’t begin to; and I 
should only be more frightened, and couldn’t say a 
word.” 

“Mrs. Gerald, then?” 

“No, no, Barbara. If I were drowning, you 
wouldn’t stand suggesting that I call for some one 
else when you were right beside me and only had 
to stretch out your hand. You’re just another girl 


130 


BARBARA MORRISON 


like me, and you know how girls get to be Christians, 
because you’ve done it yourself.” 

By this time they had reached the privacy of Mary 
Ann’s room, and Barbara had been pulled down onto 
the couch by the hands that would not let her go. 

Distressed and embarrassed, and yet with a new 
pity awakening within her, she at last responded 
brokenly to the repeated pleadings for help. 

“I don’t know how to help you. Oh, Mary Ann, I 
don’t feel so sure that I am a Christian myself, or 
know anything about being one.” 

Mary Ann stared in surprise. 

“Oh, often and often,” continued Barbara, “I feel 
positive that I have never taken Christ for my Master, 
for if I really had, how could I possibly do all the 
horrid things I’m forever doing? If you just knew 
half of them, you’d say so too. Things that, that— 
oh, they’re heathenish, barbarian—oh, they’re more 
devilish than Christian; and even while I know it 
and hate myself, I do them. So there now, you know 
why I don’t know how to help you !” 

The other girl became calmer as Barbara’s excite¬ 
ment increased. 

“But what do you do when you think you aren’t 
a Christian? You don’t give it all up? I know you 
don’t, for I can see that you keep on trying.” 

“Of course I don’t give it all up. What do I do?” 
She had to think this over for a while, and then: 
“Why, generally I have a time of being almost crazy 
with misery, and making every one else almost crazy 
too, and then—” She hesitated; it was so very hard 
to have to unbare her secret soul to any one, and to 
Mary Ann Peters of all others, but she could not re- 


BARBARA IS UNPREPARED 


131 

sist her mutely appealing eyes, although it was al¬ 
most in a whisper that she went on: “Then I begin 
to pray, and then I say to myself, ‘ If I really am not 
a Christian already, I’m going to be one this very 
minute. I will be a disciple of Christ’s, even if He 
doesn’t want me, and I can only tag on way, way be¬ 
hind the rest.’ And I can just tell you this, Mary 
Ann, I expect I’ll be nothing but a tagger-on all my 
life, but I’m going to keep at it, even if I die in the 
attempt.” 

Mary Ann pondered this, and then hesitating in 
her turn made a confession : 

“I don’t believe I’d be even allowed to tag on be¬ 
hind. You see, once about a year ago, I nearly made 
up my mind to take Jesus for my Master. It seemed 
as if I was within a minute of deciding, and then 
something happened and I let it all go, and I don’t 
believe there is any more chance for me ever again.” 

Now it was Barbara who clung to her companion. 

“ Don’t, don’t say that. I know about it. Mrs. 
Gerald told me, it was my fault—” And right at 
that point she received a lesson in magnanimity, 
and of all persons from Mary Ann, the one she 
had called “spiteful,” “as hard as brass tacks,” and 
much else, for the latter interrupted in a tone of 
deep feeling: 

“Oh, how could Mrs. Gerald tell you that! Even 
when I hated you most I never, never wanted you to 
hear about that; for somehow I knew it would make 
you unhappy all your life.” 

Barbara was conquered, and so completely that she 
did what earlier no one could have convinced her she 
could possibly ever do: she took the poor girl in her 


132 BARBARA MORRISON 

arms and kissed her and gave herself up to comforting 
her. 

“You haven’t lost your chance. No one ever can. 
Jesus isn’t like that. Why, don’t you remember how 
He told about the shepherd hunting for the sheep; 
not waiting for it to follow, but following it, and hunt¬ 
ing and hunting until He found it, and then being so 
awfully glad He couldn’t keep it to himself but had 
to get a lot of others together to rejoice with Him? 
Then don’t you remember how Jesus said He that 
cometh unto me I will in no wise cast out. In no 
wise, Mary Ann; not even the shadow of an un¬ 
cordial look ! Why, I’m ever so much worse than you 
are to behave as I do when I promised over two years 
ago to be His disciple, and yet He takes me back each 
time. And you can’t think how good my Father in 
heaven is to me, and how He makes me feel just 
through and through that He has forgiven me.” 

“Will you pray with me?” asked Mary Ann sim- 
ply. 

Barbara shrank back. No, this she could not con¬ 
sent to; but the look in her companion’s eyes told her 
that it was just this that she could not refuse to do. 
It was a broken, mixed-up prayer, scandalously un- 
theological, even ungrammatical; but it was the cry 
of a helpless child to an all-sufficient Father. And 
when the disjointed petition, “Please help me to help 
Mary Ann if I’m not too impossible, and anyway 
please help her Yourself,” ended, Mary Ann took up 
the pleading with the declaration that she, too, was 
determined to follow the Good Shepherd whether He 
wanted her to or not. 

After that neither girl cared to talk much more, but 


BARBARA IS UNPREPARED 


133 

they kissed silently, and Barbara turned to go. 
Then noticing Mary Ann’s hands, one at throat and 
the other on forehead, she asked what was the mat¬ 
ter. 

“Oh, nothing. Sore throat and headache. Cold, I 
suppose; I wore low shoes in the rain yesterday.” 

Barbara turned quickly that the other should not 
see the effect of her words, and on her way to the door 
stopped to tell Mrs. Peters that Mary Ann was feel¬ 
ing sick. But later she told her mother that she was 
sure Mary Ann was coming down with scarlet fever. 
And so it proved, for the next morning Barbara saw 
the quarantine placard on Mr. Peters’s door. She 
hurried on to let Mrs. Gerald know of it, but stopped 
horror-stricken. The placard was on Mrs. Gerald’s 
door also, and worse; for white flowers and streamers 
hung over the bell-button, an undertaker’s wagon 
stood at the curb, and the man was carrying up the 
garden-walk a small white casket. Little Betty had 
slipped away. 

During the weeks that followed, Mary Ann almost 
slipped away too. Very slowly she came back again, 
seriously handicapped for a long time by the after¬ 
effects of that dreadful disease, aggravated by the 
cold she had contracted. 

Barbara was much cast down by Mary Ann’s ill¬ 
ness and Mrs. Gerald’s sorrow. She tried several 
times to write to the latter, but finally had to ask 
her mother to speak for her in the note she was 
writing. Mrs. Morrison did this in such a way that 
the stricken mother felt a warmer affection for her 
former Sunday-school scholar than she had ever be¬ 
fore believed possible. 


BARBARA MORRISON 


134 

About this time a command, rather than an in¬ 
vitation, for two of the older girls to visit her came 
from the aunt after whom Amy was named. Laura’s 
refusal to leave home was positive, and at last the 
two others accepted their aunt’s somewhat domineer¬ 
ing hospitality. But in order to win their consent, 
Laura had had to reveal the doctor’s injunctions 
against exertion, and thereupon had difficulty in con¬ 
vincing the alarmed Mrs. Morrison that Barbara 
could do all that was needed, and that it was best 
for both sisters to let the arrangement continue. 

Several weeks of general depression passed as the 
epidemic of scarlet fever increased, and then of cor¬ 
responding elation as it decreased, and the health 
board finally declared it stamped out, although it was 
not considered safe to reopen the schools until after 
frost. 

Barbara hardly smiled until she heard that Mary 
Ann was out of danger, and during that period she as¬ 
siduously dedicated herself to serving Laura and 
every one else, often with misplaced efforts at help¬ 
fulness from which the recipients would gladly have 
been delivered. Perhaps she was unconsciously 
hoping that thus she might obtain a more favorable 
hearing to her prayers that Mary Ann might not suf¬ 
fer through her misdeeds and that she herself might 
be forgiven. When, therefore, recovery was assured, 
the good news turned Barbara’s anxiety into jubila¬ 
tion. She felt free to “fling dull care away” and have 
a good time. 

To the secret satisfaction of her family her efforts 
at service relaxed, but unfortunately the reaction 
carried her too far. Seeing that her friends not only 


BARBARA IS UNPREPARED 135 

failed to stand at attention with admiration but ac¬ 
tually appeared oblivious that she had been living 
for some few weeks as they had lived for many years, 
she felt herself aggrieved and released from further 
obligations. Why they were not also, she would have 
been puzzled to explain. But no occasion for explana¬ 
tion brought her face to face with her inconsistency. 

After all, though, Barbara was no more at fault than 
those who excuse themselves by saying, “Oh, but I 
never do this or that! ” “ I never serve on committees ! ” 
“I never call outside of my own circle!”—as if this 
were sufficient and satisfactory reason for shifting to 
the shoulders of others the obligations to neighborli¬ 
ness, co-operation, and all their share of the kindly 
activities that make of this world a livable place. 
The only proper retort to such as these is: 

“If you have been shirkers hitherto, all the more 
cause for you now to fall to work with might and 
main.” 

Perhaps if something of that sort had been said to 
Barbara at the beginning of her declension, she might 
not have had to learn it so painfully later. 

Laura, with an invalid’s sensitiveness, noticed that 
attentions were no longer spontaneous, and then that 
her requests were more and more reluctantly complied 
with; and soon the ungraciousness became so marked 
that she deferred asking for a service until the need 
was imperative. Finally she seized a favorable op¬ 
portunity to speak to her grudging “lady in wait¬ 
ing.” But to her mild remonstrance Barbara in¬ 
dignantly insisted that the change had been in Laura 
herself, that she was growing increasingly exacting 
and self-indulgent, and the intimation was not spared 


BARBARA MORRISON 


136 

that her weakness was, if not actually assumed, at 
least largely imaginary. In vain Laura cited the 
doctor’s reiterated orders. Barbara’s only reply was: 

“Of course he accepts your statements. If he 
lived right here and saw you every day as I do, he 
would know well enough that you are just as able as 
I am to go up and down stairs and to do anything 
else that you really want to do.” 

She only half believed this, but having once as¬ 
serted it, she would not retract, and the conversation 
ended in mutual discomfort and alienation. Laura 
found herself oppressed and agitated by the fear that 
she might be obliged to reveal to her already over¬ 
harassed mother the doctor’s warning that what 
was now not more than weakness might develop into 
serious heart trouble unless his directions were mi¬ 
nutely observed. The consequence was that as Bar¬ 
bara’s disposition became worse, Laura’s health also 
became worse, until one day brought the crisis for 
both of them. 


CHAPTER XVI 


BARBARA BETRAYS HER TRUST AND IS NOT SPARED 
THE ROD 

1 AURA and Barbara were entirely alone in the 
j house. It was a close, hot afternoon, and Laura, 
faint and almost gasping on her couch, was trying to 
forget her discomforts by at least pretending to read, 
when Barbara looked in and said casually: 

“I’m going to Grace Alden’s for a while.” 

“But, Babs,” remonstrated Laura in an almost 
terrified voice, “there is not a soul in the house! 
Suppose the door-bell should ring?” 

“Oh, well, let it ring. But no one is likely to call 
before Mary gets back from her errands.” 

“But, truly, Babs, I do feel worse than usual; can’t 
you wait a little while till Mary does come in?” 

“There! Isn’t it exactly as I said? You grow 
more and more imaginative and selfish. You don’t 
seem to care a mite that I have been slaving and 
slaving for you all these weeks; and now just because I 
want a little fun and relaxation, you’re not willing I 
should stir out. Amy and Susie are having no end of 
fun, you have nothing to do but to amuse yourself 
and lounge around from morning to night, but I must 
keep on the jump every moment because big sister 
thinks she is an interesting invalid!” 

Laura raised herself as she answered: 

137 


138 


BARBARA MORRISON 


“ Barbara, you are perfectly aware that what you 
say is not true. I am getting anything but amusement 
out of this; and as for ‘slaving,’ you have not done a 
single errand for me this whole day-” 

Here she faltered, and Barbara seized her chance. 

“Well, I should say it was time I had one day off 
from running errands. What do you suppose I am 
made of if you suppose I can be on tap every single 
minute of every single day?” 

“You are nothing of the sort!” 

Now Laura knew that all this discussion was worse 
than useless, but she was near the breaking point, and 
could no more control herself than she could control 
her sister; so she went on: 

“You were away all day yesterday, and have been 
out with your friends every day this week. Even 
now I am only asking you to wait a half-hour at the 
most, so that I shall not be entirely alone in the house. 
That is little enough to ask of you.” 

“ ‘Little enough,’ indeed! You mean you are only 
asking me to give up something I want most awfully 
much to do just to satisfy a selfish whim of your 
own.” 

The blood surged to Laura’s head, and she pressed 
her hand on her palpitating heart, as she held the 
other out in a trembling, pleading gesture. 

“Babs, please, please don’t go! Oh, if you knew 
how these turns frighten me!” And her voice shook 
with restrained tears. 

“That is sheer babyishness! And it is time you 
were cured of it!” and Barbara turned toward the 
door. 

“Babs, I should suppose all those music lessons I 



BARBARA BETRAYS HER TRUST 139 

have given you and the pains I have taken with your 
practicing would entitle me to some consideration 
when I beg for what seems so important to me.” 

Barbara came into the room and close to the couch. 

“You gave those lessons because father wanted you 
to, and he is under obligations if any one is; certainly 
I’m not. But after father let you have such expensive 
lessons, I should never suppose you would throw into 
his face that he is under obligations to you for your 
lessons to me.” 

“Barbara Morrison, you are intolerable!” 

“Not nearly as intolerable as you were when you 
slapped me!” 

Laura braced herself, though she grew very white. 

“If you go,” said she, “I shall do something much 
worse than slapping. I shall have a talk with mother. 
I simply cannot go on putting up with your unwilling, 
irritable ways. I am too sick to bear with them 
longer, much as I hate to worry her.” 

“Well, I can have a talk with mother as well as 
you, and I think it’s full time I had it, whether you do 
or not!” and she whirled defiantly away. In doing 
so, her thin white skirt flew out and twisted around the 
leg of a light stand near the couch. She gave an im¬ 
patient jerk, and over went the stand, carrying to 
destruction a vase containing a single exquisite rose. 
The vase was one of rare beauty and great value, 
brought from Europe by one of Laura’s friends, and 
was her most cherished treasure. She sprang forward 
to save it, but too late, and as it crashed into frag¬ 
ments on the floor, she sank back upon the couch. 

“Of all the ridiculous things!” cried Barbara, as 
she stood with her back toward her sister regarding 


140 BARBARA MORRISON 

the wreckage. “To put that vase on that rickety 
stand! Just see how your stupidity has resulted!” 
But Laura made no reply. “The water has splashed 
all over me, and gone through and through. I can’t 
possibly wear this soaked dress on the streets!” 

Still no answer. Barbara continued her monologue. 

“I don’t consider it one bit my fault, and I shan’t 
pick up a single scrap! If you haven’t more sense 
than to put the vase in such a place, you deserve to 
have it broken.” Still silence. “I know,” and she 
whirled about to face her sister, “you don’t answer 
because you are going to tell mother it was my fault; 
but—” and then she paused, for Laura lay with 
closed eyes, very white and still. “Well, if you don’t 
want to speak, you needn’t!” 

Then, as she turned to leave, something about the 
inertness of Laura’s position startled her, and she 
went back. 

“Laura, why don’t you speak? Mercy, you can’t 
have fainted over such a trifle!” But her tone of 
annoyance changed to one of alarm as her sister’s 
face seemed to grow grayer. “Laura, Laura, you 
frighten me!” 

She ran for the smelling-salts, but these had no 
effect; neither did cold water on the even colder brow, 
nor yet the rubbing of the limp hands, nor anything 
else Barbara could think of to do. At last, thor¬ 
oughly alarmed, she ran to the telephone and called 
the doctor: 

“Laura’s in a faint and I can’t bring her to!” 

He shouted back some hasty directions and that 
he was coming at once. In growing terror she did as 
he ordered, until she heard his welcome slam of the 


BARBARA BETRAYS HER TRUST 141 

front door and rush up the stairway; and then almost 
in a nervous collapse, she cried hysterically: 

“Oh, doctor, doctor, do you think she’s dead?” 

Without answering, he began swiftly to work over 
the unconscious girl, and again Barbara wailed her 
question. 

“Silence!” commanded he sternly. “Get me a 
pitcher of boiling water”; and then came order after 
order with the curt injunction to “get a move on” 
when there was the slightest appearance of bewil¬ 
dered hesitation. Now indeed Barbara was on the 
“jump every single moment,” and the most constant 
and rapid jumping she had ever executed, and even so 
had complaints flung at her by the anxious man for 
her maladroitness. At last the white lids fluttered 
over the eyes that seemed to have sunken away back 
into Laura’s head. 

“Oh, Laura,” began Barbara. 

“Stop that,” exclaimed the doctor in a fierce whis¬ 
per. “Haven’t you a grain of sense? Leave the 
room, or I’ll have it all to do over again.” 

Barbara slunk away, completely cowed, though 
still wild with a desperate fear as to what this por¬ 
tended. Again the eyelids fluttered and then slowly 
began to open as a little color crept to Laura’s pallid 
cheek, and she weakly murmured: 

“Babs, please don’t scold any more.” 

“There, there, my lady, we’re coming around as 
slick as a whistle!” 

The doctor’s voice was so genial and encouraging 
that it seemed impossible that it was the same that 
had railed at Barbara for some twenty minutes past. 
Laura’s eyes flew open. 


142 


BARBARA MORRISON 


“You here? What's the matter?” 

And she would have sat up, but he prevented, say¬ 
ing soothingly: 

“There, there, not a motion, my lady. Still as a 
mouse, that’s the ticket. What’s the matter? Oh, 
nothing so much; a little faint turn.’’ And then with 
a humorous glance from under his bushy eyebrows at 
the bestrewn floor: “You’ve evidently been up to 
some high jinks that were too much for you.’’ 

“Oh,” said Laura. “Now I remember it was the 
crash. I felt as if I had had a blow.” And then she 
shivered and glanced around apprehensively. 

“ Barbara’s in the other room,” he said significantly. 
“She’s all right. Don’t you worry one leastest mite. 
Stick out your tongue for this powder, and now shut 
your eyes and let it put in its work.” 

“Doctor, you’re a dear,” whispered his patient 
with an affectionate smile. 

“Tut, tut, not another word,” said he, though 
mightily pleased. “Flirting with an old fellow like 
me! What d’you suppose Mrs. Hudson will say to 
such goings on?” 

But Laura only smiled as the tense lines relaxed, 
and at last her gentle breathing proclaimed her 
asleep. The doctor watched her for a while, and then 
with a murmured “Close call, that!” turned to see 
Barbara in the doorway, staring in frightened silence. 
He sternly waved her back, and, first reassuring him¬ 
self of his patient’s well-being, he strode out to where 
Barbara stood white and shaking, huddled up against 
the wall. 

“Is she dead?” she hoarsely asked. 

“Now, don’t be any more silly than you can help, 


BARBARA BETRAYS HER TRUST 143 

seeing it’s you,” growled the testy old gentleman with 
a scowl. “Of course she isn’t dead, but a lot of mis¬ 
chief has been done somehow. But that’s neither here 
nor there now. I’ll be back in a half-hour or so.” 

He then proceeded to give her minute directions as 
to what to do, and where to call him should there be a 
change for the worse. Meanwhile she was to simply 
keep perfectly quiet and watch; and on no account, 
and he made her repeat this after him several times, 
to ask Laura questions or talk to her, or in any way 
to agitate her by opposition or showing anxiety or 
otherwise. 

“ I wish your mother were home, or Susie, or Amy. 
They have sense, and that, Barbara, is something 
that you seem to specially lack,” and he looked her 
over discontentedly. “Well, I suppose I’ve got to 
trust you this time, though I do most inordinately 
hate to.” 

Then he left as abruptly as he had come. Barbara 
seated herself by the couch. Not a grain of self- 
assertion or self-confidence was left in her. Her 
white muslin hung about her in moist, bedraggled 
folds, and she felt as forlorn as it looked. She knew 
that this time she had failed with a terribly serious 
failure, and through the same faults that had caused 
other failures—an overweening self-importance, and 
resentment because the supply of praise fell short of 
her demand. Then she studied Laura, and was star¬ 
tled to see how fragile and how sad she looked, and 
recalled her remark that there “was no amusement 
in the situation” for her; and for the first time Bar¬ 
bara gave due credit to her uncomplaining, patient 
spirit. 


BARBARA MORRISON 


144 

During two months Laura had been obliged to 
deny herself at every point, and yet had maintained 
most of the time a smiling serenity. Moreover, she 
had perseveringly kept on giving Barbara lessons at 
unguessed cost to her own exquisite musical taste, and 
this was the first day that her balance and self-con¬ 
trol had given way, and, as Barbara could now guess, 
with sufficient reason. 

The girl’s eyes, wet with self-reproach, were fast¬ 
ened tenderly in understanding sympathy upon Laura 
when the doctor entered again, and, after gazing at the 
sleeper, softly left the room, beckoning Barbara to fol¬ 
low him. Once out of hearing, he demanded sternly: 

“Did you know that Laura’s heart is dangerously 
weak?” 

“No; oh, no; she never told us anything except 
that you had said she had used up her capital of 
strength and needed complete idleness.” 

“So much the better then for you,” and the cloud 
of displeasure lifted somewhat. “Now what had you 
been doing to bring this about ? Scolding and getting 
her excited and then smashing things?” 

Barbara humbly acknowledged all, without trying 
to exculpate herself, except from intentional smash¬ 
ing, while he studied her face, then spoke abruptly: 

“There is no organic disease, but a few turns such 
as this might work irremediable harm; and it looks as 
if you couldn’t be trusted with so ticklish a business. 
There is no reason under the canopy why she shouldn’t 
be as well as ever, and her wonderful self-control and 
patience are my greatest assistants; but if you are 
going to butt in with scenes like these, all that she 
and I can do together will be undone.” 


BARBARA BETRAYS HER TRUST 145 

Barbara cowered under his disapproving scrutiny 
as he grumbled on: “And yet your mother seems to 
have more than enough now with helping Lloyd; and 
the girls are away, and here are you a quitter and a 
mischief-maker when it would be as easy as rolling 
off a log for you to take hold of this right-” 

“Doctor, won’t you please let me try again?” 

“But I can’t trust you; there’s the rub. You are 
capable enough. As for that, a child would be capable 
enough. It’s no stunt at all. It’s not capacity that 
is required, but faithfulness, and that quality you 
don’t seem to have.” 

He was still scowling, and she plainly saw that 
his rating of her practical value was pretty close to 
zero. 

“No, I meant to be faithful, but I wasn’t; but if 
you would only let me try again—just once more— 
and you could watch me, you know, and if I began to 
fail you could scold; oh, you could scold fit to take 
my head off!” 

“I’d take your head off without waiting to scold, 
miss. Now, see here, Barbara, I’ve known you from 
the first second of your life, and I’ve been mightily 
disappointed in you. You haven’t panned out well, 
and for no reason whatever that I know of except 
that you are selfish from top to toe.” 

“I know; and, oh, I did honestly intend to be bet¬ 
ter, and to truly do service!” 

As her voice grew humbler and fainter and her 
eyes more pleading, his voice grew gruffer and his 
shrewd eyes pierced her through and through. 

“Intend! Intend! Everybody, even scalawags, 
intend to do better. ‘ Service ’! Oh, landie! what 


BARBARA MORRISON 


146 

were you intending to ‘do service' for, miss? Your 
own glorification, I bet, and to make people feel in¬ 
debted to you. Now, see here, I’m not asking for 
service. Landie but I get sick of that word! As if 
doing wasn’t a sight more profitable for the doer 
than for the one done to. All I want of you is to exer¬ 
cise what capability you have so as to bring in big 
returns to yourself—to yourself . Do you absorb that 
idea?” 

“Yes, I do, and I don’t see why if I am so selfish 
you want me to be more selfish still.” 

“ Missed again ! It won’t make you any more self¬ 
ish (no business of mine if it does), but won’t it make 
your selfishness of some use to you ? Now, it only in¬ 
capacitates you for everything, even for being happy. 
Since you are selfish, a great strapping healthy girl 
like you might as well use her selfishness scientifically, 
see?” 

No, she did not see at all, only that the doctor was 
a most grumpy and cantankerous man, and that she 
was floundering quite beyond her depths. She also 
saw that he was not in the least impressed by her re¬ 
pentance, or by anything about her except as it 
related to Laura, and she looked up in stupefied si¬ 
lence. 

“No, it’s plain you don’t see. Well, then, take it 
this way. I’m bound Laura shall get well, and be 
stronger and better than ever before in her life. She 
is made of first-class stuff, bodily, mentally, and 
spiritually. She has no end of poise and tenacity of 
character, and she has taken this wonderfully, and, 
what is finer, she has taken it scientifically. She has 
studied just how much she can do, and knows to a 


BARBARA BETRAYS HER TRUST 147 

dot where she must stop. And she hasn’t made be¬ 
lieve that she was a martyr either; now, has she ?” 

“No, she has been just as if nothing unusual were 
the matter.” 

“ I knew it! I was sure of it! Trust her for that! 
With all her sensitiveness of temperament, she has 
known how to take this scientifically, and that has 
made her study of her symptoms altogether imper¬ 
sonal, so that it hasn’t harmed her a mite. Now, if 
you could copy her and go in, as I am doing, with the 
determination to get her cured as a scientific proposi¬ 
tion, without any question of ‘doing service’ and such 
like sentimental trash, but just that you, Barbara 
Morrison, schoolgirl, are going to have a hand in re¬ 
establishing the health of one of the dandiest girls in 
Borderville, you’ll make a go of it. But this is where 
the ‘doing service’ role won’t work; not with you in 
it, anyway.” 

“Then it won’t be filling a chink?” 

“Sure as you’re alive it will.” 

“Then let me try. Oh, let me try.” 

“Blest if I know what to do about it. I’ll let you 
know later.” 

With his accustomed abruptness he started down¬ 
stairs, and encountered a very anxious mother enter¬ 
ing the front door, for Mrs. Morrison had recognized 
the car before her house. 

“Doctor, what is the matter?” 

He drew her into the library, and there they were 
closeted for some time, and then he paid another hasty 
visit to Laura, who simply laughed in his face when 
he shook his big finger at her and threatened the 
direst punishment if she ever again indulged in any 


BARBARA MORRISON 


148 

such tomfoolery. Mrs. Morrison stood beside Laura’s 
couch during the interview and laughed too; for 
Laura had told him that he was the dearest and cross- 
est old dear that ever lived, whether he spelled dear 
with a capital D or a capital B. 

After the doctor left, Mrs. Morrison stooped and 
kissed her daughter tenderly, and said: 

“I am so relieved that Doctor Hudson considers 
you such a young hopeful.” 

“Now just what does that mean, mother?” 

“Why, that you are so sure to be stronger than 
ever, and that you are such ‘ a brick ’—his own words 
—at taking care of yourself. Barbara, clear up this 
mess on the floor, and then change your dress. I 
hope that the doctor will never again find you and 
the room in such disgraceful disorder.” 

That was all the reproof she received, but the sig¬ 
nificance of tone and glance made it altogether suf¬ 
ficient. 


CHAPTER XVII 


A NEW VIEW-POINT 

T HE next day Doctor Hudson met Barbara with 
a twinkle in his eye as he asked: 

“Been collecting halos again by doing service?” 
She shook her head meekly. 

“Tired of playing the saint, eh? Well, it doesn’t 
exactly fit in with the sort of stuff you’re made of.” 

Barbara flushed, but she felt no anger, partly be¬ 
cause she knew it would be useless, but more still be¬ 
cause there was fun without malice in his smile. He 
pinched her flushed cheek. 

“Twitting on facts, eh? Well, then, let’s get at 
business. If the saintly career is closed, how about 
the scientific? Ah, I see, that takes the cake. Now, 
then, we’ll get down to bed-rock.” 

And he began to give her clearly and fully precise 
instructions, every once in a while turning to Laura 
with the injunction to remind her sister if there were 
any lapses. 

“Keep her well up to the mark. No slouchy work 
this time. Now go out of the room, miss, and write 
that all out, and then bring it in and read it to me. 
Mark my word, and mark it well, there is to be no 
trusting to memory, nor to impulse, nor to inclina¬ 
tion, nor to anything else but doctor’s orders. Do you 
get that ?” 


149 


BARBARA MORRISON 


150 

Barbara assured him she did. 

“This is downright, upright business now, and noth¬ 
ing but business. The kind of business you come up 
against when you go into a hospital to study nursing. 
There, if you’re not on your job, you get fired to the 
tune of a minute-gun. See?” 

Barbara saw as clearly as he could wish and care¬ 
fully wrote out the directions, and almost with trem¬ 
bling awaited his verdict after reading them to him. 

“ Humph ! Well, I suppose I can’t expect perfection 
the first time! Laura, you go over those and correct 
them. Then she is to make two copies: one in this,” 
producing a small pass-book, “for you; only one di¬ 
rection to every two pages; and in these ruled spaces, 
under date and hour, you’re to mark full dash, half 
or quarter dash, or naught according to the way she 
obeys orders. Oh, no”—this in response to Bar¬ 
bara’s crestfallen dismay—“I don’t trust you alone 
yet, not by a jugful, with this precious little lady here; 
not unless she keeps tabs on you—honest tabs, mind 
you, my lady !” And again the big finger was shaken 
at Laura. She caught it and held it fast, while she 
shook hers at him with the question: 

“What did you see in the looking-glass this morn¬ 
ing?” 

“Blest if I know, except an ugly old phiz.” 

“Was it spelled with a D or a B?” 

“I’ll ask Mrs. Hudson, if I don’t find the answer 
before I’ve finished my rounds, Lady Saucebox.” 

Barbara found herself still left with the care of 
Laura, only that the latter was very really in control. 
Even her mother deferred to her regarding Barbara’s 
duties, and the performance of these was rigidly 


A NEW VIEW-POINT 


151 

watched and faithfully reported to Doctor Hudson. 
He called daily, sometimes twice a day, although he 
declared his patient gaining rapidly. In between his 
calls he sent young Sargeant to make inquiries. It 
is true these inquiries generally resolved themselves 
into a half-hour or so of violin-playing with Barbara 
as accompanist under Laura’s supervision. Barbara’s 
piano accuracy gave her a good foundation for this, 
but she had to be drilled into strictly subordinating 
her part and adapting it to the requirements of the 
violin. It was difficult to make her realize that she 
was not the leader in the duet, still less an indepen¬ 
dent player; and she was long in comprehending that 
the glory of an accompanist is to intelligently and en¬ 
thusiastically take the secondary part and wholly 
conform it to the master part; reaching perfection 
only as she became attuned and obedient to every 
slightest intimation of her leader’s will. 

This double tutelage as nurse and accompanist be¬ 
gan to tell upon her character in ways unsuspected 
by her but obvious to others. For the first time in 
her life Barbara was learning to adapt herself. From 
the doctor she received frequent lessons in the science 
of curing invalids by good nursing. He aroused her 
ambition to do a good piece of work at the same time 
that he inspired her with a wholesome dread of falling 
below his standards. Similar forces impelled her in 
playing with Sargeant, and thus before she knew it she 
was thinking only of her work and not at all of her¬ 
self. Daily she grew sunnier, less moody and variable 
in temper. Life began to seem full of interest, and 
the more her work interested her the better she did it; 
until the rest of the family fell into the way of drop- 


152 


BARBARA MORRISON 


ping in to enjoy the duets or summoning “nurse” for 
small ailments. 

Doctor Hudson twinkled more than ever but did 
not praise, holding that she was but doing what she 
ought to have been doing all along. And Barbara, 
well aware of this, was eager only for that sort of ap¬ 
proval which showed itself by giving her fuller re¬ 
sponsibility and more frequent lessons in hygiene, 
anatomy, and physiology. One day the doctor said: 

“Well, nurse, we can’t let my Lady Saucebox here 
steal all your color away. She is fast becoming like 
Jeshurun, who waxed fat and kicked, and it’s time 
you got more fresh air. So bundle on a hat and I’ll 
take you for a spin. Now, mind, no prinking; I 
haven’t time for that folderol.” 

Barbara flew to obey, and he turned to Laura: 

“She’s coming on all right, eh?” 

“Doctor,” cried she, “you’re one big blessed angel. 
You are making her, as well as me, all over new.” 

“Hum, let’s see, where does the doctor’s young 
gentleman assistant come in ? His wings sprouting a 
little too, eh?” 

Laura tried not to blush, made a failure of it, and 
then took refuge in laughter and arch admonition. 

“Now, you are in mischief, I verily believe. You 
go home to your wife, sir, and tell her that you are 
breaking loose, and she must look after you better or 
there’ll be scandalous doings.” 

Barbara’s ride with the doctor was one of many. 
Sometimes he was wrapt in revery, at other times 
talkative even to garrulousness. He put her through 
a course of humorously scientific lectures which she 
enjoyed hugely, though quite unaware of their great 


A NEW VIEW-POINT 


153 


value. He taught her to run his car, how to take off, 
mend, and replace punctured tires, and initiated her 
into the various maladies that running gears are sub¬ 
ject to. He rarely complimented her for any success, 
but showed his approval by letting her do again what 
she had once done well. Once or twice, however, 
when she took a difficult curve well or neatly extri¬ 
cated herself from congested traffic, he said a hearty 
“Good girl!” which made her almost hilariously 
happy for days. 

“Now,” said he one day, “I’m going to give you the 
chance of your life. If you fail here, you’re a goner 
sure. I’ve been working up to it, for it means a lot 
to me, and more still to a girl your own age in years, 
and as old as your mother in fine character develop¬ 
ment. She has a nasty spine, and I’ve got to where I 
need help in treating it. She can’t afford to pay a 
nurse to come with me, and I can’t either. So I’m 
going to see if you’ll do.” 

He looked keenly at her as he continued: 

“What I’m going to do will hurt her at first like 
the devil, and, if you flinch, that ends it. There, now, 
don’t run me into the ditch for what I said !” 

Barbara had started and given a twist to the steer¬ 
ing-wheel which it took quick action to remedy. She 
was then somewhat pale and breathless, but set her 
lips firmly. 

“ No, no, not to-day ! It won’t do ! Too cowardly ! 
Turn around, and I’ll drop you out at the next corner 
for home!” 

“Doctor, please,” she begged, but he was crossly 
obdurate, and did just as he said, thus giving her a 
full three miles’ walk, during which she did much 


BARBARA MORRISON 


154 

praying for strength and much salutary self-mockery 
for chicken-heartedness. That evening she abruptly 
stopped playing to ask Sargeant if he knew of the 
case. Yes, he did, had been several times to help the 
doctor, but a woman would do better as helper. It 
was pretty tough on a poor little girl to have two men 
hurting her, and not a woman to even hold her hand. 

“Why, where is her mother?” 

Then the sad tale came out of a widow who had 
had to resume her previous employment as stenog¬ 
rapher to support herself and little girl, while the 
latter, despite her painful ailment, aided by taking 
shorthand dictation at home for her mother to type¬ 
write off evenings. 

“ Is she such a little girl ? I thought she was about 
my age.” 

“Well, aren't you a little girl? But she looks more 
so than you do because she is undersized.” 

Barbara went on with the accompaniment, only to 
soon stop again to ask: 

“Does she suffer all the time?” 

“Pretty much all the time, I fancy, though not al¬ 
ways severely.” 

This sort of stop-and-begin-again duet continued 
until Laura ended it by declaring Barbara must 
either finish talking or finish playing. 

“Just one more question. Would it really be a help 
to her to have me there?” 

The future medical missionary became again “the 
young man who smiled” as he looked her over. 

“Not if you develop too many nerves yourself, and 
positively not if your fastidiousness gets the upper 
hand as it did in helping Mrs. Martin.” 


A NEW VIEW-POINT 155 

“I imagine that even at the very worst her having 
me would be an improvement on having you.” 

“ Barbara ! Barbara!” cried Laura, shocked at her 
pertness, and then trying to turn it off as a jest: “It 
passes me why you two so often get into these wran¬ 
gles.” 

“I suppose,” explained Barbara, quite with indiffer¬ 
ence, “it is because we dislike each other so much.” 

He laughed good-humoredly. “Not on my part.” 

“Well, on mine, then,” and she crashed out some 
chords so as to prevent reply. 

But after she had left the room, Laura said apolo¬ 
getically : 

“I can’t think why Barbara treats you so rudely. 
It is a real source of mortification to me.” 

“No, no,” answered he; “as long as she does not 
prejudice you against me, let her work off her dislike 
in her own way.” 

“But why should she dislike you? I have never 
seen you otherwise than very kind and forbearing 
toward her.” 

He sat thoughtfully a moment, and then said 
lightly: 

“Believe me, it is of no account whatever, but if it 
worries you, why don’t you ask her?” 

“I have, and she told me shortly that it was not 
my affair, and that as long as mother understood, 
it was enough,” and Laura smiled wryly at her un¬ 
success. “Babs tells mother her very innermost 
thoughts,” she explained. 

Immediately his brow cleared; he had been wonder¬ 
ing if he ought to tell of his previous meetings with 
Barbara. “For,” he said to himself, “if she talks as 


BARBARA MORRISON 


156 

freely on the trains to other strangers as she did to me, 
she ought to be looked after!” But now he said to 
Laura: 

“Oh, that makes it all right. It can’t be anything 
very serious, for your mother has not turned against 
me. I suppose I treat Miss Barbara too much as if 
she were a little girl. The truth is, she seems like one 
to me, but she is just at the age when she takes her¬ 
self very seriously and wants to be treated like a 
young lady. She’ll get over that with time. I know 
all about it—been there myself. Indeed, I think 
boys more than girls are subject to tormenting self- 
consciousness as they get into their teens. But your 
mother is such a wonderfully discriminating, wise 
person that she will know how to give the right touches. 
Besides,” and he gave a nod of smiling emphasis, 
“that big-little sister of yours has a lot of sturdy 
qualities to build upon. She has enough energy and 
impetuosity and will-power-” 

“Obstinacy,” interjected Laura. 

“Well, call it what you please, but anyway she has 
enough of the up-and-coming qualities to furnish out 
a dozen boys, and if she doesn’t make something very 
much worth while out of herself, I lose my bet.” 

Laura beamed upon him. 

“She has been a perfect dear to me. I don’t know 
what I should have done without her, and I am very 
grateful to you for judging her so kindly.” 

Any young man, even a medical missionary, would 
have been glad to receive the glance bestowed upon 
him by Laura’s soft brown eyes, and Bob Sargeant 
was not one to be unmindful of his blessings. 


CHAPTER XVIII 

doctor Hudson’s new assistant 

B ARBARA had ceased to care about Laura’s book 
of marks (though it showed an increasingly 
higher rating of her nursing efficiency), for she was 
becoming as interested as the doctor himself in her 
sister’s complete cure and in herself having a hand in 
it. Consequently, Laura gained so rapidly that Bar¬ 
bara had ample leisure to pursue what Mark called 
her “medical course.” She kept hoping to see “the 
girl with a spine,” but from the day he dropped her 
out of his car three miles from home for what he con¬ 
sidered her cowardice, Doctor Hudson was obsti¬ 
nately mum on that subject. 

However, he made occasion to have her at his office 
to answer the bell and the telephone and to help him 
when there was a hurt to be dressed. He began with 
the simpler services, such as handing him the absorb¬ 
ent cotton for swabbing out a lanced boil, or holding 
the water-bag for irrigating a wound, or waiting on 
him as he cauterized incipient gangrene. In this way 
she saw some of the very women and children to whom 
she had planned to extend missionary efforts in their 
shanties by the creek bear pain so unflinchingly that 
for very shame she could not flinch herself, although 
more than once a deadly sickness came over her. 
i57 


158 BARBARA MORRISON 

Then Doctor Hudson would change her occupation 
without apparently perceiving her condition. 

Gradually she acquired three very important and 
useful qualifications—a quiet self-control, alertness in 
doing the correct thing, and respecting sympathy for 
all sufferers whatever their station or breeding. 
Moreover, her growing interest in the work soon made 
her oblivious of dirt, squalor, and smells. 

Meanwhile Laura had been allowed to resume most 
of her usual pursuits, although piano-practising was 
still taboo. 

“Moderation is more difficult than total absti¬ 
nence,” pronounced Doctor Hudson, “and notwith¬ 
standing the power of self-control you have shown, I 
don’t want you too severely tested yet a while. Be¬ 
ginning to practise might prove your undoing, on the 
same principle as a dram to a reformed inebriate. 
No, you needn’t turn up your pretty nose at me; I 
can tell you, my lady, I’m not taking any chances, 
not even improbable ones, upon a relapse. You’re 
going straight to the country, now that Sue and Amy 
are on their homeward way and can be with you; 
and you are going to board with some old-fashioned 
friends of mine, glad to get a little extra money, and 
who haven’t a piano within a mile of them. See? 
I let you manage your own case too much at first, 
worse luck ! But I’m on it to the finish now, and I’m 
sitting t-i-g-h-t!” he spelled emphatically. 

As much as Laura might laugh and jest with the 
doctor, she none the less yielded implicit obedience; 
and uncomplainingly went off to the pianoless family 
without even once touching her own keys. 

After her leaving, Barbara slid backward somewhat 


DOCTOR HUDSON’S NEW ASSISTANT 159 

into envious faultfinding because every one but her¬ 
self was having a vacation and lots of fun. But Mark 
promptly nipped this in the bud. 

“ Everybody having vacations, indeed! Well, I 
should say it was about time Laura had a holiday 
from being sick. And what do you think of mother 
attending to all of the housekeeping and goodness 
knows what else, besides working in the office all 
summer? And what do you think of the sort of va¬ 
cation father has been having, not even a half-holi¬ 
day off? Only natural modesty prevents me point¬ 
ing out myself also as one of those with nose steadily 
applied to the grindstone while my youngest sister 
has been flying around town and country in a fine 
auto, the envied of all beholders.” 

“ I envied ?” The idea was incredible to Barbara. 

“Yes, you envied. Our stenographer said to me 
once: ‘ Isn’t that your sister in with Doctor Hudson ? 
What a perfectly lovely time she does have. I see 
her riding nearly every day, and I sometimes feel as 
if I’d give up my chance of ever again owning a new 
hat if I could have just one ride.’ And old Sam said: 
‘ My but Miss Babs does have a gallumpshus time this 
summer! If I could be a pretty young white lady 
instead of only old nigger trash, perhaps I could be 
spinning along, too, as happy as a archangle!’ ” 

Barbara laughed, but immediately became serious 
and thoughtful. Both her father and mother had 
been watching her, and now the former asked: 

“Truly, daughter, has your summer been so very 
strenuous and disagreeable?” 

Barbara turned a brightly smiling face toward him. 

“No, father, I think it has been the pleasantest 


i6o BARBARA MORRISON 

summer I ever spent in my life. And as for being 
strenuous, I doubt if I ever before did so much visit¬ 
ing and general junketing about, and all of the most 
agreeable sort.” 

“ I am so glad, dear,” said her mother. “ I really was 
afraid that the doctor was working you too hard, and 
that you were having a rather tedious, dull time.” 

“Mother, I’ve had the time of my life; but I doubt 
if I would have discovered it but for Mark. Mark, 
I’m going to ask the doctor if I may take your stenog¬ 
rapher for a little spin some time while he is in at old 
Mrs. Brown's; he always has to stay there so long; 
and you must let her go whenever I make the chance.” 

This was accomplished successfully, and even old 
Sam was made “as happy as a archangle” one day 
by being picked up by the doctor as he was shuffling 
along the dusty highway. At times it occurred to 
Barbara with a sense of surprise that there was a new 
freedom in discussing family affairs before her, even 
to the extent of asking her views; but her mind was 
too occupied for her to be elated thereby, as she 
would have been formerly. 

For the same reason she did not greatly miss her 
sisters; besides that, the companionship of Grace 
Alden partly compensated for their absence. Grace 
accompanied Barbara in the visits required by Doctor 
Hudson to sick children; and also made dainties, or 
furnished toys and amusements for the little patients. 

Very often in their visits they encountered Bob 
Sargeant, and oftener still heard of him. Everywhere 
he had won respect, but not always by any means 
cordial liking. “He do be too free-spoken ” was the 
complaint of one old hag whom he had berated for 


DOCTOR HUDSON’S NEW ASSISTANT 161 


the filthiness of her abode and other evil conditions 
more serious still. She was grumbling as she cleaned 
up that it wasn’t fitting for a slip of a young chap to 
threaten her, old enough to be his grandmother, with 
the health officer. And he’d had no call to tell her he 
smelled whiskey on her breath when ’twas only a raw 
onion she’d been eating for the healthfulness of it. 

Barbara was trying to change the dressing on the 
burnt hand of her little grandson, when the pain 
drew forth oaths doubly shocking from childish lips. 

“Shut up!” yelled the old crone, giving him a 
whack with her broom. “Shame on ye swearing be¬ 
fore a young lady!” 

The blow nearly knocked the boy over, and 
wrenched his hand away from Barbara’s so roughly 
that he howled and danced with the hurt of it, and 
swore worse than ever. 

“You wicked, wicked woman!” almost shrieked 
the amateur nurse; and then, to Grace’s unmitigated 
surprise, she caught the filthy little fellow in her arms 
and began to soothe him with loving words and ca¬ 
resses, just as if he were some dainty nursery darling. 
His grandmother, more incensed than ever, let out 
curses worse than those for which she had corrected 
the boy, until Grace quieted her down with calm but 
forcible words. 

The boy meanwhile, as still as a mouse, gazed wide- 
eyed on the girl who had given him his first experi¬ 
ence of a petting, and allowed her to do what she would 
without a whimper; and then tagged after the two 
until they had to get a neighbor’s child to take him 
almost forcibly home. 

An excited account of this adventure was given at 


162 BARBARA MORRISON 

the Morrisons’ table, with the result that Mr. Mor¬ 
rison told Doctor Hudson to “cut out the slumming, 
and the boy, thus deprived of Barbara’s attentions, 
was sent to the hospital. When she visited him there, 
she hardly recognized the clean and pretty little fel¬ 
low who greeted her entrance with a joyous whoop 
and clung to her skirts while he held his face up for a 
kiss. 

“Are you a good boy now?” she asked. 

He hung his head and pointed to the nurse. 

“He’s getting good,” she answered, “though I 
have had to wash his mouth out pretty hard with 
soap three times to-day to get the taste of the bad 
words out. Yes, sir, three times, and if it happens 
again, something stronger than soap will have to be 
used.” She looked so serious that he shook his head 
emphatically as he promised: 

“No more bad words; no, no, no /” 

“Now say this and do just what I do.” And Bar¬ 
bara stood him very straight before her and recited, 
while he followed word by word and gesture by ges¬ 
ture: 

“ If somebody asks me to curse and swear, 

Let him laugh at me, what do I care ? 

I’ll tell him no! ” 

ending with a very big “ No” and a stamp of the foot. 

This quickly brought together all the children who 
were able to be running about, and Barbara had to 
go over it many times while with great glee they re¬ 
cited in chorus, even those in the cots joining in. For¬ 
tunately, there were no very sick children for whom 
quiet was necessary. 


DOCTOR HUDSON’S NEW ASSISTANT 163 

This call was followed by more, in which Grace 
and some of the other girls shared; and Barbara was 
abashed to learn how many of her schoolmates had 
been in the habit of frequently visiting the children’s 
ward to amuse the inmates and supply them with pic¬ 
tures, toys, fruit, and delicacies. 

“Why did you never tell me?” she asked. 

They glanced at each other in embarrassment until 
one of them spoke up, “Why, it never entered our 
heads to tell you anything we did,” and the ingenu¬ 
ous surprise of her tone revealed to Barbara as no 
words could have done what a great gulf she had 
created between herself and them. 

A few days later she learned that the wretched old 
grandmother, having drunk up her last cent, had been 
removed by the town authorities to the poorhouse. 
So thither Barbara took her way, not exactly knowing 
why she went, nor just what she was to do when she 
arrived. At the last moment she had bethought her 
that reading a chapter in the Bible might be a proper 
proceeding. But however proper this might have 
been, it was most improperly received, and Barbara 
was actually fleeing before the imprecations and more 
solid missiles that were hurled at her when she was 
checked by the poorhouse keeper, who strode into the 
room saying threateningly: 

“Bread and water for you to-day, my woman, and 
worse if you don’t hold your tongue. Mind you, sharp 
now.” 

The old thing began to whine that she’d had bread 
and water all that week already, and was that trem¬ 
bly she couldn’t lift her head. 

“Well, you seem to be able to lift your hands fast 


BARBARA MORRISON 


164 

enough,” and he grinned at Barbara. “Better keep 
clear of her, miss; such as you can’t do anything for 
such as her; she’s too low. Young things like you’d 
best be after the kids to keep them straight before 
they get that far down.” 

“But won’t you please let her have something be¬ 
sides bread and water? I should feel awfully if by 
coming to see her, I got her into trouble.” 

“Now mind the lady, that’s a dear fellow, and I’ll 
be like all the angels in heaven for doin’ nothin’ but 
singing hymns and Slams. And let her stay a bit 
and talk with me; I’m sure she’ll make me a better 
woman.” 

Barbara’s heart thrilled at this swift “taming of 
the shrew,” and her eyes pleaded for consent. The 
man’s face twitched with a desire to laugh at her 
gullibility, but he consented readily enough and left 
them. 

“Now come here, dear young lady, pretty young 
lady,” wheedled the old woman. “I didn’t go in for 
to be like that; it was a kind of spasm what took me 
out of the bad, bad past, that I’ve given up. Oh, yes, 
I’m pious now, and it’s the Bible for mine!” 

There was something so fearsome about her dis¬ 
torted face and bleared eyes that Barbara almost 
regretted staying, and when she was besought in a 
pious whine for a “comforting reading,” she sat at a 
distance until forced by assurances of “deefness” to 
come closer, and then shivered as the bony claws 
fingered her clothes, while their owner mumbled re¬ 
marks on each article. 

“I can’t read if you go on like that.” 

“Well, let it alone for to-day, dearie.” Then peer- 


DOCTOR HUDSON’S NEW ASSISTANT 165 

ing all around to make sure that none was within 
sight or hearing, she put her wizened lips close to 
Barbara’s ears and whispered: 

“Dearie, just bring me a little drop of whiskey, 
won’t you? I’m pining away for the need of it. 
Now, dearie, ’tain’t for bad drinkin’ I want it. Drink ? 
Why I wouldn’t lose my immortal soul for drink! 
It’s just for a tonic, don’t you see, dearie?” She 
laid a claw coaxingly on Barbara’s hair, but the 
girl drew back in disgust, only to feel her hair clutched 
and a voice no longer pious growling out hideous 
threats if she did not do as bid, and the other claw 
clapped over her mouth stifled Barbara’s attempted 
cry for help. 

Suddenly the keeper stood in the doorway and she 
was released. 

“I was only lovin’ the pretty little lady,” whined 
her tormentor. 

“Well, I guess the young lady’s had enough lovin’ 
from you for one day, eh, miss?” as Barbara rushed 
toward him. “Reely scart now! My, that’s too 
bad; wish I’d come sooner, but it all seemed so quiet. 
Oh, I hadn’t left you stark alone with the likes of her; 
I was here by the door-jamb all the time.” 

He had got her out into the open air by this time 
and brought her a dipper of water. Then as her 
color returned, he could not forbear saying: 

“You thought you had converted her mighty 
quick, didn’t you, miss? Now, don’t you make any 
such mistake; she’s a nut that it would take a sledge¬ 
hammer to crack; but there’s a nice little old bedrid 
woman in that there room that’d be mighty cheered 
to see you. Don’t want to go in? Well, well, no 


BARBARA MORRISON 


166 

wonder; you have had a bad time, I know.” But he 
looked disappointed, so Barbara impulsively con¬ 
sented. 

“Say, mother,” he called, “take this young lady to 
old Mrs. Used-ter-be, will you ? She’s got that name 
fastened on her from tellin’ so often how she uster be 
this and that.” 

“ Mother” proved to be almost as masculine-looking 
as himself; but by that time Barbara understood that 
strength was fully as necessary a qualification as any 
other for the office of poorhouse keeper. 

Little Mrs. Uster-be was shrivelled up and bedridden 
from sheer old age, and while she had practically no 
mind left, and certainly no beauty, there was some¬ 
thing winning as well as deeply pathetic in the joy 
with which she welcomed a call and the smiling con¬ 
tent with which she listened to the reading. 

Barbara walked home revolted and sick at heart 
as she pondered the two questions: Why had her 
life had such careful guarding and training? And 
why was there so much in it to minister to her com¬ 
fort, when the former had apparently been entirely 
absent from the life of the one old woman and the 
latter from that of the other? 

After hearing of this experience, Mrs. Morrison 
forbid further calls alone at the poorhouse and all 
communication with the old harridan who was 
whiskey-thirsty. 

In talking it over with her school friends, Barbara 
again had the mortification of learning that here, too, 
those of them in Mrs. Gerald’s class had been ahead 
of her at the poorhouse, and still went, in groups of 
threes, at regular intervals. 


DOCTOR HUDSON’S NEW ASSISTANT 167 

“Oh,” said one of them, “of course you know we 
aren’t attempting to do them good, only to make 
them happier. They do like sociability, and are just 
as tickled as anything over our bringing flowers and 
candies.” 

“Candies! when they are so old that they are 
standing on the very verge of the grave.” Flowers 
were funereal enough to be orthodox, but really this 
other sort of self-indulgence in full view, as it were, 
of eternity scandalized Barbara not a little. 

“Good gracious, Babs, what has that to do with 
eating candy ? Why, I expect to eat it if I live to be 
a hundred!” 

The girls passed on and left Barbara sitting on her 
porch steps waiting for the doctor to come along and 
pick her up. And as she waited she meditated on the 
disquieting fact that these very girls whom she had 
accused of religious insincerity had already been doing 
the work she had plumed herself upon having sug¬ 
gested. This explained the significant smiles passed 
between them when she had proposed organizing a 
chink-fillers’ club. Barbara felt so very small that 
she would have welcomed the opportunity to have 
crawled away into a chink tiny enough to hide her 
from even her own observation; and her communings 
ran: “Well, Miss Barbara Morrison, how do you think 
you like yourself now that you have at last found your¬ 
self out? Oh, yes, you were going to do no end of 
good, were you? And all you actually did was to 
slander the girls who were doing the good. No, you 
can’t squirm out of it; this firing-squad you have got 
to face . 11 

It was eloquent of her changed view-point that her 


BARBARA MORRISON 


168 

indignation was wholly with herself, to the exclusion 
of any resentment against the girls for omitting her 
from their activities. Her comment on that was: 
“Good for them! I richly deserved all I got.” 


CHAPTER XIX 


THE GIRL WITH A SPINE 

B ARBARA’S meditations were interrupted by 
the doctor’s car, and she jumped in and took the 
wheel. 

“All ready for my girl with the spine?” 

She checked her speed so as to face him. 

“Yes, I am; and, if you don’t take me to-day, I’ll 
drop you out and let you do the walking back this 
time.” 

He pretended to frown, and grumbled: 

“That’s the way; teach a girl to be a chauffeuress 
and a surgeoness and a Red Cross nurse, and she has 
an old fellow like me at her mercy! But, young 
woman, crow low until you have better luck in putting 
on tires.” 

As they went on, he explained what assistance he 
would need, and to her surprise it was much simpler 
than much he had already required of her. She 
looked her thought and he continued: 

“ I considered it best to put you pretty well through 
your paces before making another attempt. I wasn’t 
going to take any chances of a breakdown or awk¬ 
wardness with my brave little girl with the spine. 
Her name really is Patience Noble, but my name for 
her, ‘The Brave Girl with a Spine,’ suits better. 
There’s the house.” 

It was very small and sadly in need of paint and 
169 


170 BARBARA MORRISON 

repairs. Just at the side of the door was a placard 
which read: 

STENOGRAPHER 

DICTATION TAKEN HERE 


The door was opened by a girl in a wheel-chair, 
which she managed with great dexterity. 

Barbara’s first impression was of a face all large, 
dark, appealing eyes, and pathetic mouth; and next 
of the sweetest of smiles in which eyes and lips 
joined and a bewitching dimple came and went, as 
two slender hands were impulsively stretched out 
to her in welcome. 

“If you only knew how hungry I have been for you; 
but this dear, blessed doctor insisted that I could not 
have my new nurse until she had attained her degree. 
What do you think he said: ‘ She is not to touch you 
until I consider her fit to help me set the wing of an 
angel who has leaned too far over the battlement of 
heaven.’ Would you ever suspect him of being a 
poet?” 

“There, there, there, Lady Rattle-pate. Now you 
will spoil her by making her fancy that she has reached 
perfection.” 

“No, I’ve learned enough to know that I am very 
far from that,” interrupted Babs. 

Doctor Hudson turned his back that the two girls 
might not see how fond and proud he was of both, and 
only growled out something to the effect that it was 
lucky she’d learned that much if nothing more. 

Barbara’s heart sank within her as the treatment 
proceeded, and the electricity, the rubbing, and the 



THE GIRL WITH A SPINE 


171 

strapping up made Patience blanch, while moisture 
gathered on her forehead and around her lips. Still 
the “Brave Girl with a Spine” smiled, and still the 
dimple played hide-and-seek in her pale cheek. When 
the doctor at last tipped back the chair so that she was 
reclining, she beamed gratefully at Barbara, saying: 

“If you could only know what a comfort it has 
been to have you helping. You are so quick and yet 
so deft!” 

But the doctor laid a finger on her lips. Then he 
gave the young nurse minute directions for any emer¬ 
gencies while he made another call, and ordered per¬ 
fect quiet for at least a half-hour. 

“After that, if she wants to, you girls can have a 
little chat together.” 

Patience closed her eyes, and Barbara sat down 
where she could watch every change without being 
seen. Soon her gentle breathing told that Patience 
slept, and slowly the color climbed into her face 
again. The half-hour was barely up when her eyes 
flew open and she said: 

“Oh, I feel so much better; isn’t it time to talk?” 

And then the chattering began. 

After the recent indifference shown by her school¬ 
mates, the unconcealed avidity with which the sick 
girl seized upon her companionship roused in Bar¬ 
bara a responsive enthusiasm. Never before, except¬ 
ing by Mrs. Barton, had she been so immediately and 
effectually captured. Soon they were addressing 
each other as Patty and Babs, and the one was pledged 
to give the other lessons in stenography and the other 
to repay by lessons in knitting and crocheting. 

Patty explained that her patrons being mainly 


172 BARBARA MORRISON 

school-teachers, or business men on their way to or 
from employment, occupied her early morning or late 
afternoon hours, and that the intervening time 
dragged because tired back and eyes equally inter¬ 
fered with continuous holding and reading of books. 

“If I can learn to knit with my eyes shut, I can 
make a lot of things to sell.” 

Barbara advanced the supposition that Patty was 
frightfully lonely most of the time. But this was 
laughingly denied. She really had no chance for it. 
First and last, there were her patrons, nearly all of 
them interesting in themselves, and often with tre¬ 
mendously interesting matter for dictation, only they 
were always on a rush; then between whiles the neigh¬ 
bors’ children ran in and out; and evenings her mother 
and she had the comfiest of comfy times together, 
while she read off the dictation for her mother to 
typewrite. 

“And after that we have the most delectable gos¬ 
sips. Mother tells me what she has seen in the city, 
and she certainly sees the funniest things and tells 
about them in the most amusing way. No, I really 
don’t have any chance to get lonely; but I confess 
that, until you came, I sometimes got wildly hun¬ 
gry for the companionship of a girl about my own 
age!” 

Every few days after that, either brought by the 
doctor or walking the long road, Barbara made her 
way to Patty’s, and the mutual instructions pro¬ 
gressed apace. 

One day Barbara declared to her mother: 

“Patience is the most allegorical creature I ever 
knew, or knew of, except perhaps Bunyan himself. 


THE GIRL WITH A SPINE 


173 

This morning she looked white, and I asked her if she 
was in pain, and she said, as if it were a good joke, 
that she had been prancing all over the old dragon 
Pain on her good steed Fortitude, and that while 
they hadn’t killed him dead, he had lost Lis chance 
to make them squeal. And the other day when she 
had been trying to knit in the dark, and had spoiled 
it all by dropping stitches, she said such a swarm of 
pesky little Discouragement Flies began to buzz 
around her that she had to get her swatters out, and 
Madam Stick-at-it had to come to her help with a 
fly-brush. I asked what her swatters were, and she 
said she was almost ashamed to tell me that they 
principally consisted of slang; that she had noticed 
how biggity-biggity small boys always seemed to feel 
when they got hold of a new slang word, and so she 
experimented and found it really most exhilarating. 
On this occasion she adopted little Micky Bradley’s 
threat to his brother, ‘I’m going to whop you to a 
frazzle! ’ and it worked like a charm on the Dis¬ 
couragement Flies; proved one of the best swatters 
she had ever tried. It makes me laugh to hear her 
droll notions.” 

“It makes me feel more like crying for the poor 
child,” said Mrs. Morrison. 

“You don’t need to,” answered Barbara meaningly, 
for she thought that at last she had found the answer 
to the riddle of Patty’s glad contentment, which had 
greatly puzzled her. At first she had accounted for it 
as merely company manners assumed in her honor, 
but when, as they became intimate, it still continued 
consistent and unaltered, she had concluded that, 
Patty being Patty, after all life was not so very hard 


174 BARBARA MORRISON 

on her. But when a few days later she broached this 
theory to Doctor Hudson in the flippant remark that 
Patience was built without nerves, either spiritual or 
physical, and really didn’t feel what would pain more 
sensitive souls and bodies, he dryly remarked: 

“Guess again!” 

Then he began a tirade against selfish people, which 
made her wish she had kept silence. 

“They are such blunderheads,” he growled. “If 
a body moans with pain, they say”—and his voice 
went into a cracked falsetto—“ ‘Oh, bless my soul, 
what a shocking lack of self-control! ’ But if another 
smiles at pain, then the cry is: ‘Oh, of course it’s 
easy for her! She’s not sensitive like me.’ ” 

“I didn’t say like me,” denied Barbara indig¬ 
nantly. 

“Well, you meant it, all the same. Like every other 
selfish person, you are always present to yourself, and 
down underneath are always comparing others with 
yourself. Your first conclusion was that as you 
couldn’t have borne Patty’s hardships, of course she 
wasn’t bearing them, but was putting up a bluff for 
your benefit.” 

Barbara’s face was very red as she demanded how 
he knew that. 

“I knew it, my dear detractor, after that second 
visit, when you said with airy sweetness—oh, such 
sweetness—that Patty had perfectly lovely company 
manners. As Patty is as transparent as the sunlight, 
I knew that even you weren’t blind enough not to 
find out eventually that company manners weren’t in 
it with her. So I foresaw the next step in detraction 
was bound to be that she hadn’t your exquisitely sus- 


THE GIRL WITH A SPINE 175 

ceptible feelings of the princess who couldn’t sleep 
because of the crumpled rose-petal in her bed. And, 
sure enough, here it comes along. Now, why can’t 
you just own up that Patty is the best sport ever, 
and that you wish you were like her?” 

The doctor’s words stabbed Barbara deeper than 
words had ever stabbed her before, and it was with 
difficulty her trembling hand guided the steering- 
wheel as she stammered: 

“I am not a detractor. There is nothing in the 
world I hate so ! Oh, I know all about it. The mean¬ 
est, sneakiest! I ought to! I can tell you I have 
suffered enough from detraction! No one seemed to 
care what they said against me, or how much they 
belittled my good qualities. Why, doctor, I couldn’t 
possibly be a detractor after what I’ve gone through 
myself!” 

Doctors meet with gross self-ignorance too often 
to be taken by surprise at almost any manifestation 
of it. So Doctor Hudson only whistled a few bars 
from “ ’Way down South in Dixie,” and then said 
mildly : 

“Well, have it your own way, honey. I only 
thought there was some detraction in that fracas 
when you almost killed Laura; and some of your re¬ 
marks about several and divers of our fellow citizens 
have had the same flavor. But perhaps I’m mistaken. 
I don’t want to be an old detractor myself, so I’ll 
take it all back.” 

Silence followed, and Barbara, finding herself be¬ 
reft of opponent, fell into reflections which ended in her 
saying in a small, timid voice: 

“Anyway, I don’t want to be a detractor.” 


176 BARBARA MORRISON 

Whereat a kindly pat on her shoulder gave her the 
courage to ask: 

“What does make Patty so contented, then?” 

“ Ask herself,” was the reply. 


CHAPTER XX 


THY WILL BE DONE 


TTER the doctor had left the two girls together, 



A Barbara did ask, and with simple frankness 
Patty answered: 

“It is a stratagem father taught me, and mother 
keeps it up; a sort of outwitting trouble by a flank 
movement. Let me tell you about father, and you 
will understand.” 

It was the tale of an ardent young man with in¬ 
domitable will-power and wonderful prospects stricken 
in his career of spectacular success by an incurable 
disease. There was the giving up of business, fol¬ 
lowed by the dwindling away of his small capital; 
then the exchange of their pretty home for this hum¬ 
ble dwelling; the selling of one valued article of fur¬ 
niture or ornament after another; and at last her 
mother’s return to the employment she had had be¬ 
fore her marriage. 

During all this her father had maintained a helpful 
courage, and had trained her to discern “the advantage 
of disadvantages.” 

“He taught me that even if I were poor and de¬ 
spised, still the Lord thought upon me, and that 
though handicapped as I was—without health, or 
wealth, or social position, or further education than 
a cripple could receive at home—opportunities to win 
honors were wide open to poor little insignificant me, 


BARBARA MORRISON 


178 

too, and that all the odds against me would be 
counted as assets. 'For God hath chosen the foolish 
things of the world to confound the wise; and God 
hath chosen the weak things of the world to confound 
the things which are mighty; and base things of the 
world, and things which are despised, hath God 
chosen; yea, and things which are not to bring to 
naught things that are; that no flesh should glory in 
His presence.’ ” 

Barbara simply stared. Patience had led her quite 
out of her depths. All this loftiness of attitude struck 
her as fanciful and fanatical; but since Patience had 
quoted Scripture in support of it, she felt silenced. 
Casting about in these difficult circumstances for 
something to say, she lit upon a remark which struck 
her as not only strictly appropriate but eminently 
pious. 

“So your father was resigned to God’s will?” 

What was her shock when Patty exclaimed indig¬ 
nantly, even scornfully: 

“ ‘Resigned’! Not he! You don’t understand at 
all if you think he could ever have sunk to that low 
estate!” 

Now here was where Barbara herself could quote 
Scripture; and she did it with considerable solemnity 
and severity of rebuke in her tone. 

“Why, Patty, Jesus taught us in the Lord’s Prayer 
to say ‘Thy will be done,’ and He said it Himself in 
the Garden!” 

“Yes, He said ‘ Thy will, not mine, be done,’ and 
that was just what father longed for. I don’t believe 
that he wished for anything else with the passion he 
wished God’s will might be done on earth as in heaven. 


179 


THY WILL BE DONE 

But that isn’t being ‘resigned.’ Resignation is mere 
acquiescence. If you were starving, you wouldn’t be 
resigned to having food. A gold-digger isn’t resigned 
to finding a nugget. A shipwrecked sailor wouldn’t 
call resignation the sensation he feels when he is res¬ 
cued. 

“Why, father rejoiced in the will of God, and was 
glad —it is true, I’m not exaggerating—to suffer any¬ 
thing if it was advancing the doing of God’s will. 
He, too, said 1 Thy will, not mine, be done.’ He used 
to say that he had never had a pain or sorrow that 
had not proved a key to unlock the door into some 
joy that he could never otherwise have entered upon. 
I always called him the joyous pilgrim, and he called 
me the princess. I will read you that story of his 
some day. I wrote it all out.” 

Then noticing Barbara’s expression, she added 
quickly: 

“I see you think he was something queer—a little 
off his head, perhaps.” 

Barbara blushed at this insight, and stammered that 
probably she didn’t quite understand; and Patty laid 
her hand softly on Barbara’s and said affectionately: 

“No; of course in your happy, protected life you 
couldn’t be expected to understand. Father used to 
say no one could without having had the experience 
of trouble, or else an almost divinely sympathetic 
imagination.” 

“Well, I’ve had trouble enough too. Not outside 
trouble, perhaps, like yours. But I think it is having 
pretty real trouble to be the least cared for in your 
own family, and of no account at all among one’s 
schoolmates. People who have spectacular trouble 


i8o 


BARBARA MORRISON 


like yours are slow enough to appreciate the hidden 
heart troubles.” 

Patty shrank with pain at the implication that she 
was making a parade of her misfortunes; and pain, 
too, for Barbara, who had already unconsciously re¬ 
vealed that selfishness and jealousy were the source of 
her “heart troubles,” but she answered cheerily: 

“Of course you have your troubles, too, dear; but 
father used to say (and I have found that he was abso¬ 
lutely right) that every trouble that God sends us is a 
prize package with a wonderful gift inside; and that 
when we can’t seem to get at the hidden joy, we must 
ask Him how to open the package. But the prizes 
are only in the troubles that God Himself sends us.” 

“But God sends us all our troubles.” 

“Oh, dear me, no. I’ve had a lot of troubles that 
God had nothing to do with. I simply manufactured 
them myself; and of course when I tried taking them 
to Him, I discovered what sham packages they were.” 

Barbara looked at her sharply, but detected only 
candor and sympathy. Just then the doctor’s horn 
sounded the signal, and Patty threw her arms around 
her and said: 

“You are such a solid comfort, Babs, and I am so 
glad you said what you did about hidden troubles, 
for I see now that I have laid far too much stress on 
the outward ones. Father used to say they only rep¬ 
resent the taking of the outworks, but trouble inside 
the heart meant that the citadel had been invaded. 
I do hope that you will find the prizes in your pack¬ 
ages.” 

This sounded so exceedingly mixed to Barbara that 
she kissed her hastily without trying to answer, but 


THY WILL BE DONE 


181 


fervently wishing that she had never been told the 
things that “father said.” At her own gate stood a 
group of girls, who immediately surrounded her to 
discuss the coming Sunday-school picnic. 

“ But I’m not going,” said Barbara. “ I never went 
to but one of them, and I loathed it.” 

“You are going. Y ou are going, ’ ’ insisted M ary Ann 
Peters. “Isn’t she, girls?” 

“Of course she is, and she knows it,” assented 
Grace Alden. 

Then all the others joined in until, greatly flat¬ 
tered, she consented. When Barbara ran up the 
piazza steps to where her mother sat with a book, 
but really too pleased to attend to its contents, she 
was greeted with: 

“Babs, the girls had been waiting nearly half an 
hour for you. I am glad you promised to go. It is 
a real joy to me, dear, to see how popular you are 
becoming with the girls.” 

And perhaps the exhilarating effect of this ex¬ 
perience upon Barbara accounted for the unusually 
good game of chess she played with her father that 
evening. 

“Well,” he said, “you proved yourself a foeman 
worthy of my steel. At this rate you will soon be¬ 
come a star player.” 

“She is fast becoming a star performer in all that 
she undertakes,” said her mother with a meaning 
smile that brought the quick flush of pleasure to the 
girl’s cheek. 

“Hurrah for the family chink-filler!” shouted 
Mark. He had been an interested watcher of the 
closely fought game, and now, with his accustomed 


BARBARA MORRISON 


182 

rapidity, had gathered her up and waltzed her out 
into the hall and onto the piazza. 

“Oh, Mark,” she gasped, “please don’t dance 
down the block as you did that other time. If you 
do it again, it will make the neighbors positive that 
we are crazy.” 

“Who cares if they are?” he answers as before, 
and whirled her down the steps as he spoke. Even 
this haste did not prevent her waving her handker¬ 
chief to the invalid old gentleman next door, who, 
smiling, returned her salute. They had been warm 
friends from the day she rescued his Angora cat, 
clinging to a telegraph-pole, from the dog barking 
below. 

“Now,” remonstrated Barbara, “just as sure as 
fate, if you go whisking me down the street you’ll 
dance me into Doctor Sargeant again. He’s always 
around when he isn’t wanted.” 

“Don’t excite yourself over Bob Sargeant. As 
long as Laura is at Elm Tree Hill, you won’t see 
much of Sargeant around this end of town.” 

“What!” almost shrieked Barbara, standing stock¬ 
still. Mark only laughed. 

“Haven’t you noticed that he has seemed to have 
lost his interest in violin-practice lately, sis? And 
don’t you know that the dear lad has to recuperate 
every week-end at Elm Tree Hill?” 

“Mark, you’re joking!” 

“Blest if I knew I was! I thought I was as seri¬ 
ous as I ever was in my life.” 

“How perfectly horrid!” And then anxiously: 
“But surely Laura can never care for that fellow?” 

“Can’t tell; girls are awfully queer. But what’s 


THY WILL BE DONE 


183 

the objection to him? He seems a good sort, and 
perhaps he’ll get over his medical missionary craze.” 

“Why—” But Barbara stopped short, looked 
vexed, and then blurted out: “I simply detest him; 
he always makes me feel as if I were a fool, and as 
if he knew it.” 

“Oh, come now,” and he tucked her hand com¬ 
fortably in his arm; “nobody is likely to think you 
a fool these days; you’re proving yourself altogether 
too capable and useful. You’ve taken your talent 
for making people happy out of its napkin, and are 
working it to mighty good purpose.” 

This from Mark! She stared at him, too aston¬ 
ished to even feel pleasure; indeed, she half suspected 
that he was ridiculing her. Seeing this, he gave her 
hand a little squeeze, and continued seriously: 

“I’m in dead earnest, sis; you haven’t an idea how 
much you have altered during these past months. 
You have made as good a fight against your tempers 
as you did at chess to-night. I wish I could help 
you, but the truth is, Babs, I haven’t got much of 
anywhere myself yet. You see, the girls have always 
made a sort of pet lambkin of me, and led me around 
with a pretty blue ribbon, and I seem never to have 
sensed the necessity of being helpful to others. You 
once accused me of being a bad stumbling-blockhead 
of a brother, and I guess you were about right. I 
wasn’t on deck when you needed me, and now that I 
am, you don’t need me. Seem to have missed my 
chance. But I thought that at least I could let you 
know that I have eyes in my head, and could see 
when improvement is as plain as the nose on your 
face.” 


184 BARBARA MORRISON 

“Oh, Mark, Mark, do you really and truly think 
so?” 

And that was the beginning of a long cosey chat as 
they paced up and down in the gloaming. 

That night Barbara remembered that she was to 
take her packages of troubles to God and ask Him to 
help her find the prizes in them. What then were 
her troubles ? That the schoolgirls did not like her ? 
But that very day her mother had called her “ pop¬ 
ular” with them. That she was unappreciated by 
her parents? That evening both father and mother 
had commended her with unlimited cordiality. That 
Mark was not even aware of her existence? Her 
heart glowed with the memory of his brotherly in¬ 
terest and encouragement. Neither could she com¬ 
plain of her sisters, for the day before a round-robin 
letter from all three had been in her mail. She was 
going to God with her bundles of troubles, and be¬ 
hold, she found herself empty-handed. Her efforts 
to reconstruct them ended in the self-abasing acknowl¬ 
edgment that they had been what Patty had described 
as not from God but of her own manufacture; and 
that she had allowed the forces of envy, detraction, 
and jealousy to occupy the citadel of her heart. 

“Barbara Morrison!” she apostrophized herself, 
“you are an outright, downright fraud ! Here are you 
with the dearest sport of a constantly suffering friend, 
the best father and mother that ever a girl had, and 
the finest brother and sisters and schoolmates, not to 
mention the blessedest cross old dear of a doctor to 
teach you sense—and you have troubles, have you? 
If I could get hold of you and shake you, I’d soon 
make some real trouble for you. I don’t care how 


THY WILL BE DONE 


185 

many of them you fake up; from this time on you're 
to quit your whining and fussing! Now, then, I’ve 
spoke my last word and thunk my last thunk about 
you and your troubles.” 

But it was not quite the last “thunk”; for there 
was first the childlike prayer that all her sinful fool¬ 
ishness might be blotted out, and a childlike promise 
to forget herself; and then she dropped peacefully to 
sleep, having cast off the tormenting load of self. 

The Sunday-school picnic passed off in fun and 
frolic; but it had a result for Barbara more important 
than she suspected; for it aroused her half-awake 
love for children to enthusiastic activity until her 
preoccupation with their affairs made self-oblivion a 
habit. Their playfulness, and even their naughti¬ 
nesses, engaged her interest; and their quaint sayings 
became her daily contribution to the amusement of 
the family. After the reopening of school, her spare 
time was devoted to the overflowing household of 
children living on one side of them, and to Mr. and 
Mrs. Yarrow, the aged couple living on the other side. 

“Mother!” she shouted up the stairs one after¬ 
noon, “are you going to need me for an hour or so?” 

“No. Why?” 

“Because to-day is Mr. and Mrs. Yarrow’s forty- 
eighth wedding anniversary, and the first anniversary 
they can’t go out together to gather daisies. The 
whole house was trimmed with them at the wedding 
—the newspapers called it The Daisy Wedding. 
But now Mr. Yarrow’s rheumatism makes it impos¬ 
sible for him to walk or ride to the fields. So I thought 
I’d surprise them with a lot. I can take all the little 
Hoffmans along.” 


i86 BARBARA MORRISON 

“Oh, Babs,” called Susie, now at home while Amy 
remained with Laura, “you never can manage with 
that tribe of unruly children!” 

“They’re not unruly,” indignantly; “they’re only 
lively, and no end of fun. And they will help with 
the picking.” 

“Go on,” said her mother, “have your own fun in 
your own way, only don’t go too far.” 

“I can’t get used to this new fancy of Babs for 
children,” said Susie. “It doesn’t seem to fit in 
with any characteristic she ever showed before.” 

“I think it has grown out of her nursing under 
Doctor Hudson; that aroused her interest in all help¬ 
less things.” 

“Yes, Laura told me. Still, here am I, always 
fond of children, and yet I would not think of calling 
it ‘fun’ to go off with those mischievous little Hoff¬ 
mans. I might feel it a duty, but ‘ fun ’! How can 
she manage the baby if she has the other five?” 

“Oh, she won’t take the baby, of course.” 

“But, mother, she has taken it. There she goes 
trundling it along the street, and all the others cavort¬ 
ing around her like wild Indians.” 

Mrs. Morrison uttered an exclamation of dismay 
and threw up the window; but it was too late. Then 
she leaned back and laughed. 

“Can you remember,” answering Susie’s question¬ 
ing look, “that in the past we ever worried lest Bar¬ 
bara should overtax herself doing for others?” 

Susie smiled too. “Now,” continued her mother, 
“she is rapidly becoming one of the most useful mem¬ 
bers of the family. She doesn’t even need telling 
what must be done; she sees it for herself. I don’t 


THY WILL BE DONE 187 

know what I would have done without her while 
Laura was ill.” Here Susie interrupted with re¬ 
proaches that she and Amy had been allowed to leave 
home at that time. 

“You know, motherkins, we would a thousand 
times rather have stayed and helped than have been 
taking our selfish pleasure while the rest of you were 
carrying such a load.” 

“Yes, I know, and I knew at the time; but it was 
best all round. If you and Amy had been here, 
Laura would have had too many watching over her 
for her absolute relaxation, and Barbara would have 
lost the training. Indeed, it was the opportunity of 
her life. You and Amy were just where you were 
most needed, with poor lonely Aunt Amy. As for 
Babs, she has shown a willingness and ability little 
short of genius to fit into minor situations and to do 
needful odds and ends. While her interest in all 
these small doings glorifies them, I cannot be thank¬ 
ful enough to that Mrs. Barton for starting the 
chink-filling idea. I never before realized what it 
might be made to mean; but it is fast making the 
child indispensable to us and to many others, too.” 

Meanwhile Barbara and her band tramped along 
to the fields. When the small procession returned 
dusty, tired, and hungry, but merry still, and ladened 
with daisies, Mrs. Hoffman met them at the door. 

“Children, there’s bread and milk on the kitchen 
table for you. Come right in, Barbara.” 

“Oh, I can’t; I must take these daisies to Mrs. 
Yarrow.” 

“Not before you have a glass of lemonade.” 


188 BARBARA MORRISON 

So the girl perforce sat down, glad, after all, for a 
breathing space. 

“You must be nearly dead. And I am afraid the 
children were horribly troublesome.” 

“Not a bit of it!” stoutly maintained their guard¬ 
ian; and then amid much laughter she told of their 
“ monkey-shines.” 

“Well, I can't begin to tell you what it meant for 
me to know they were having a good time in safe 
hands. I had a splitting headache, but it gave me 
a chance to lie down, and now I’m all right. And so 
the blessed baby slept all the time, you say ? and he 
hadn’t slept a wink all day. You can tell your 
mother that I consider you an angel, Barbara Mor¬ 
rison.” 

Barbara laughed and blushed, and declared that 
then she was the sort of angel who knew mighty well 
how to give herself a good time. All the same, she 
did tell her mother, shyly watching for the effect of 
this extravagant praise, and was made very happy 
by the comment: 

“I don’t wonder you seemed an angel to her, poor, 
overworked mother that she is! You are the stal¬ 
wart, practicable sort of angel that tired folk find 
much more comfortable to have about than the be- 
feathered, white-robed ones of the paintings.” 

The Yarrows seemed to feel the same. And that 
evening Mrs. Morrison remarked to her husband: 

“A little child shall lead them!” 

“Apropos of what?” he asked. 

“The way Barbara takes care of all the children 
of the neighborhood; and the way their companion¬ 
ship is moulding her into childlikeness of heart. It 


THY WILL BE DONE 189 

begins to fairly glow in her face, and has wiped out 
all those lines of discontent and suspicion. Of all 
the ministrations that are straightening out our 
precious problem, none is more effective than the in¬ 
fluence of the children—the child in the midst.” 

1 ‘Excepting that of the mother in the midst,” he 
added tenderly, “who brings to bear from all sources 
every quickening and formative influence, and, with¬ 
out hampering their working, exercises unceasing vigi¬ 
lance over every step of the process, and then takes 
no credit to herself for the result.” 


CHAPTER XXI 


THE PERFECT LAW OF LIBERTY 

I T was a Saturday afternoon. Patty had been put 
through the usual exercises with Barbara’s tender 
aid. She had had her resting period while her friend 
watched in silence, and then, opening brightened 
eyes, she took from the stand a sheaf of papers. 

“Here is the story I wanted to read to you—the 
story my father told—and that for me took the 
hardness out of what was happening.” 

THE STORY HER FATHER TOLD PATTY 

Once upon a time there was a Princess named 
Patricia Constantia; and just as she had two names, 
she had two natures. The Patricia part of her was 
proud, impetuous, and insubordinate; but also warm¬ 
hearted, courageous, and sincere. Constantia, on 
the contrary, was self-indulgent, sluggish, and vacil¬ 
lating; but was also conscientious, obedient, and 
gentle. 

The King had ordained that the Princess should 
not be brought up at the Court, consequently she 
was placed with guardians who loved her very ten¬ 
derly, and while they doubtless made many mistakes, 
since it is not easy to train a Patricia Constantia prin¬ 
cess, they honestly strove their very best to follow 
the instructions of the King concerning her. 


THE PERFECT LAW OF LIBERTY 191 

Most of the time the Princess was happy and care¬ 
free; although when Constantia overindulged her 
appetite for goodies, or Patricia raised her own special 
sort of riot, the Princess was certainly not happy, 
nor were her guardians care-free, and when the two 
natures of the Princess engaged in conflict with each 
other, matters within and without were in much the 
same state of fizz as if a teaspoonful of soda were 
dropped into a cupful of vinegar. 

She lived in a beautiful and wonderful land, but 
nothing she saw interested her so much as the moun¬ 
tain directly in front of the door; for, as she had often 
been told, it was over this mountain that the path¬ 
way lay to her father’s palace; and some day he 
would send a Messenger to tell her that the time had 
come when she must start on her journey to the 
Court. She could make out the beginnings of the 
pathway, but rocks and trees, and often clouds, hid 
the rest of it from her sight. Constantia was sure 
that it was a hard, tedious climb, and that never, 
never could she get to the top; so she named it the 
Mount of Endeavor. But Patricia’s imagination 
leaped at once to the summit and the glories of the 
palace as viewed from it; so she called it the Mount 
of Achievement; for even before starting she seemed 
to see the pomp and pageant of her welcome at the 
King’s Court. 

The Princess sometimes wondered what sort of a 
Messenger would be sent. Patricia pictured him as 
a smiling herald, resplendent in gay velvets, jewels, 
and plumes, who would beg her, with courtly defer¬ 
ence, to come with him; but Constantia feared he 
would be a fierce soldier in rattling armor, who would 


i 9 2 BARBARA MORRISON 

drive her forward at the point of his spear. There¬ 
fore, the Princess was greatly surprised when, one 
day, a black-robed personage, with a stern, cold face, 
suddenly stood before her and beckoned her to fol¬ 
low, saying shortly: “This is the way; walk in it! 
He strode forward up the pathway, and the Princess, 
too astonished to do otherwise, followed at his heels. 

For a while she was so interested in watching her 
guide that she did not consider whether the climb 
were difficult or easy. But at last Constantia dis¬ 
covered that the way was stony and the sun hot, and 
started toward the grassy shade on one side. 

“Turn not to the right hand nor to the left,” said 
the voice ahead, and Constantia shrank back into 
the path; but Patricia, now aroused, retorted: 

“I don’t see any harm in walking where it is easy 
and pleasant.” 

The severe gaze was turned upon her, and the 
voice cold and indifferent said: 

“My Master, the King, has proclaimed: ‘This is 
the way; walk in it.’” 

“Oh, if my Father the King has commanded it!” 
exclaimed Constantia in acquiescence. 

“Yes,” assented Patricia, “my Father the King I 
will obey, but no one else,” and she glanced defiantly 
at the guide. He returned the glance with indiffer¬ 
ence as he answered: 

“I am nothing at all but the King’s Messenger. I 
have no thought, no word of my own. Every direc¬ 
tion I give is only the Rule of the Road as he has 
commanded it. Whether you like or not what I 
say and do is nothing to me; but obey you must.” 

Patricia flushed angrily, but Constantia held her 


THE PERFECT LAW OF LIBERTY 193 

fast, and whispered to her to be silent. Meanwhile 
their conductor was keeping onward, and the Princess 
had to hurry to catch up. The climb became steeper 
and rougher, and Constantia began to pant and sigh; 
but Patricia looked forward and thought she could 
almost see the summit; and was fired with eager 
ambition, so that she urged the Princess to even out¬ 
strip the guide, and that in spite of a restraining hand 
which he laid on her skirt as she passed him. She 
jerked it out of his fingers. 

“No one shall check me in my obedience to my 
King!” 

“It is only idle presumption,” sternly remon¬ 
strated the King’s Messenger, “to outrun his com¬ 
mands.” 

On sped the Princess under Patricia’s compulsion; 
while Constantia, overpowered, begged and warned 
feebly, and then grew silent. The climb became 
steeper and steeper, and at last led up the rough side 
of a cliff. Still the Princess pressed upward until 
she stood on its top, and turned to call triumphantly 
to her guide: 

“Behold what I have achieved!” But she paused 
in dismay. From this height she now saw that, with¬ 
out noticing it in her haste, she had been swerving to 
the left, and far beyond to her right beheld the black- 
robed figure calmly pursuing the beaten track. 
Against the breeze she faintly heard his admonition 
repeated: 

“This is the way; walk ye in it!” 

Crestfallen and frightened, she tried hastily to 
retrace her steps; but to descend the cliff was even 
more difficult than to ascend it. Her feet slipped and 


194 


BARBARA MORRISON 


down she fell, landing in a bed of briars and stinging 
nettles, bruised and shaken, and feeling as if every 
bone in her body were broken. 

“Oh,” wailed Constantia, “why did you, why did 
you try to be cleverer than your leader ? I can never, 
never lift up my head again! I shall just lie here all 
the rest of my life!” 

Patricia was too mortified to offer counsel or com¬ 
fort. So the Princess lay where she had fallen, until 
a shadow came over her, and looking up she beheld 
her guide, gloomier and more forbidding than ever, 
and heard him say in his sternest voice: 

“Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty 
spirit before a fall! He that is perverse in his ways 
shall fall! Like the Israelite, who against the com¬ 
mandment went to fight the Amalekites, you were 
presumptuous and went up the hill. Now return 
and walk as the King has ordered; for you have fallen 
through your own fault.” 

Slowly the Princess picked herself up, and with 
much pain and exertion, both on account of her 
bruises and the roughness of the short cut over rocks 
and through thickets, she followed the King's Mes¬ 
senger, who without pity kept urging forward her 
lagging footsteps. When she had regained the right 
path, she climbed on upward because she really did 
not dare to do otherwise. But Patricia and Con¬ 
stantia were both sullen and unwilling, the former 
because her pride hurt like a bruise, and the latter 
because her bruises hurt like pins and needles. The 
sky, too, looked stormy, and the gloom was so great 
that sometimes the Princess could not distinguish 
the dark robes of her leader. Tears ran from her 


THE PERFECT LAW OF LIBERTY 195 

eyes, but quickly dried on the hot cheeks flushed 
with passion; and she sent such sharp glances of 
hatred ahead that it seemed as if they must have 
pierced through and through her leader’s back. But 
he was as unconcerned over her hatred as over her 
distress, and made no pause for her weary, footsore 
steps. 

However, when the sun at last shone out, the Prin¬ 
cess brightened and forgot her troubles; and Patricia’s 
courage revived, and even Constantia ceased her 
grumbling and began to use her conscientiousness to 
some purpose. Birds were singing and flowers bloom¬ 
ing along the pathway, and on either side of it flower¬ 
ing bushes stretched away as far as the eye could see. 
Constantia herself acknowledged that the Mount of 
Endeavor had its advantages over the monotonous 
valley, and Patricia again began to fancy the summit 
just at hand, and all the promises of the Mount of 
Achievement fulfilled; when Constantia interrupted 
her day-dreams by a glad cry, and pointed to where 
the bushes opened out into a wide, turfy space, almost 
scarlet with a wealth of luscious ripe strawberries. 
Out of her recent experience Patricia would have re¬ 
strained Constantia, and when she cried “Oh, aren’t 
they delicious ! Too tempting for words ! Surely I 
might pick some of those close to the path. See, I 
can reach them in just one or two steps!” she 
stretched out a detaining hand; but at that instant 
the guide turned, and with a frown he sharply chided 
the Princess in the name of the King for even look¬ 
ing at the fruit. At that Patricia’s wrath flared up: 

“Come on, then; don’t listen to the hateful fellow!” 
she cried. But now was Constantia’s turn to hesi- 


196 BARBARA MORRISON 

tate. “Perhaps we had better not,” she faltered; 
“but oh, they do look so good, and I can’t see where 
the harm would be in just taking one or two.” 

“No harm at all. He is simply trying to have his 
revenge. Come on!” So, more hastily than she 
had meant to, and therefore going farther than she 
had at first intended, the Princess turned aside and 
dropped on her knees among the spreading vines. 
Constantia “umhed” and “ahed” as she filled her 
mouth with the juicy berries, always, however, spy¬ 
ing just a step or two beyond berries larger and 
riper. Suddenly the Princess was conscious that her 
feet were sinking into a black bog which the greenery 
had concealed; and also a sharp inward pang made 
her flinch. The berries were no longer sweet in her 
mouth, and even while she kept on tasting here and 
there, a disgust and sickness pervaded her whole 
being. She began, too, to notice the big slugs and 
slimy snails that crawled underneath the leaves; and 
suddenly she heard a sharp hissing, and an angry 
serpent reared its head just where her outstretched 
hand was descending, and its red tongue waved like 
a flashing flame. With a scream the Princess sprang 
for the path, but could not see a vestige of it. Un¬ 
consciously in her absorption she had wandered in a 
devious way, and now did not know to which side to 
turn. She essayed to run, but her feet kept sinking 
in the bog until the black waters oozed up to her 
ankles; the trees, too, began to close in and cast dark 
shadows, and every once in a while a warning rattle 
made her aware that these hideous snakes had their 
dens close by; and the terror of it made her cold, and 
her limbs grew heavy as lead. 


THE PERFECT LAW OF LIBERTY 197 

She could never tell how, at last, frantic with fright, 
sick and sore in every part, and trembling with de¬ 
spair and fatigue, she regained the path and the now 
welcome company of her guide—welcome even though 
he looked more severe and implacable than ever. 
He seized her and shook her until her teeth fairly 
chattered. 

“ Did I not forbid it ? Am not I acting in the name 
of the King?” 

The Princess dropped on her poor, tired, stained 
and thorn-scratched knees and begged fro mercy. 

“ Mercy? I can show no mercy; I can only show 
you the way and command you to follow the King’s 
Rule of the Road; and warn you to beware that he 
does not turn you out of his presence at last as no 
daughter of his, but an ingrate and a rebel.” And 
he turned again with the one inexorable command: 
“ Follow!” 

The Princess crept after, chilled to the bone with 
apprehension and the iciness of her wet, clinging 
skirts, almost too sick to move, her head so aching 
and dizzy that she could hardly see where to place 
her steps, her dress covered with mud and fruit-stains 
and hanging in rags about her. Her feet staggered 
so that she often found them out of the beaten track, 
and every step became harder than the one before. 
At last, close beside her, she saw a soft green mound 
of thick moss. 

“I can’t go any farther!” sobbed Constantia. 

“I won’t go any farther!” exploded Patricia. 

“Oh, let me lie down and rest here!” cried the 
Princess. But the guide only repeated menacingly: 
“Follow!” 


BARBARA MORRISON 


198 

In a perfect fury Patricia stormed that not another 
step would she take. Under her influence the Prin¬ 
cess stamped her foot in rage and shrieked: 

“You shall not browbeat me thus! I tell you I 
am the Princess! Who are you that you dare lord 
it over me in this way?” 

“I,” he replied, as firm as adamant, “am the King’s 
Messenger, sent to make you walk in the King’s high¬ 
way, according to the King’s commands, under threat 
of the King’s decree of banishment if you walk a 
hair’s-breadth out of it!” 

“I don’t believe you!” the Princess vociferated, 
infuriated beyond bounds. “You are an impostor 
and no Messenger. The King is my father, and 
surely I ought to know what he wants me to do! 
He loves me and wants me to be happy, and to en¬ 
joy all the good things he has provided for my 
pleasure! I will not follow you another step! I 
hate you more than words can express; and I con¬ 
temn and defy you ! What is your name that I may 
denounce you to the King, my father?” 

Even as she uttered these bold words she trembled 
inwardly at his aspect. His eyes flashed lightning 
and he drew from under his robe a whip, saying: 

“My name is The Law of Duty, and they who will 
not follow shall be driven.” 

“Will he dare?” wondered the still defiant Princess. 

And then a strange thing happened; for even while 
she regarded him a change came over his face. It 
broke into a smile of rapturous love and delight as 
he gazed up the path toward which her back was 
turned, and sank on his knees in obeisance. The 
startled Princess turned to see what could have 


THE PERFECT LAW OF LIBERTY 199 

wrought this miraculous change. There above them 
stood One in clothes poverty-stricken, but of a shining 
whiteness. Blood drops were on His brow, and 
blood was on His wounded hands and feet. His face 
was wan, and its deep lines bespoke long-borne sorrow 
and sharp anguish of soul, and His shoulders were 
bowed as with a heavy burden. His eyes fastened 
upon the Princess with the warm light of an infinite 
love that shook her proud spirit to its centre. 

“Who is He?” she whispered, and The Law of 
Duty replied in a voice of exulting adoration: 

“He is your Brother, the Prince, the well-beloved 
Son of the King.” 

The Princess shrank with shame, and covered her 
blushing face with her hands as she realized that all 
her clothing was filthy rags, and that the Prince not 
only saw this, but must also have heard the presump¬ 
tuous, rebellious words she had spoken to the King’s 
Messenger. But the well-beloved Son of the King 
was speaking, and she held her breath to listen: 

“The Law was but the schoolmaster to bring you 
to Me; but now that I am come, you are no longer 
under bondage to a schoolmaster. If, therefore, the 
Son shall make you free, you shall be free indeed. 
Come unto Me. Take My yoke upon you and learn 
of Me. For My yoke is easy and My burden is light; 
and apart from Me you can do nothing.” 

She looked up, and, blinded as were her eyes with 
tears, she was sure the wounded hands were held out 
in invitation. And as she gazed a voiceless pleading 
stirred the depths of her heart. 

“Will you walk the pathway with Me, dear one? 
It is the one road that leads to the King’s palace. I 


200 


BARBARA MORRISON 


have been over every step of it, and My feet have 
been sore wearied and hurt with the length and 
roughness of it. Yea, and with infinite suffering I 
have cleared the way of its worst obstructions and 
have overcome fierce beasts and fiercer enemies that 
beset it. Such was the King’s decree out of tender 
love for His children; and My love was so great that 
I flew to do His bidding. I may not save your feet 
from the sharp flints, nor may I keep them from 
wearying; but you will find partaking in My suffering 
sweet to your soul. 

“ If you will to walk with Me, I shall never, never 
forsake you, or leave you comfortless, or unguided. 
When you are faint, I shall uphold you; when your 
heart fails with fear, I shall be a protecting wall about 
you; when the darkness falls, I shall hold your hand, 
and in My light shall you see light. But if you come, 
dear one, it must be altogether and entirely your own 
choice. Can you trust Me to be and to do all that I 
promise ? Can you make up your mind to walk with 
Me as I shall walk with you to the very end ? Will 
you come to Me, beloved?” 

Patty stopped, and Barbara almost whispered the 
question : 

“What did the Princess say?” 

“That is what I asked father when he stopped 
right there; and he smiled his tender, beaming smile 
upon me—oh, I am sure that it was like the smile of 
the Prince—and asked: ‘ What did she say, my 
child?’” 

“And you answered?” queried Barbara. 

“I laid my head on the pillow beside his and whis¬ 
pered: ‘Yes, I will walk the way to the end with you, 


THE PERFECT LAW OF LIBERTY 201 

my Brother and my Prince.’ And father placed his 
hand softly on my cheek and went on: ‘And the 
Prince smiled upon her and said: “Now are you made 
free from the Law of sin and death. Now are you 
under the perfect Law of Liberty.” And when the 
Princess looked for her former guide as she stepped 
forward beside her Brother, she saw his dark robes 
disappearing by another and a thornier way.’ ” 

The two girls sat silent for a moment or two until 
Patty turned and asked softly: 

“What would you have answered, Barbara?” 

“Yes, oh yes, a thousand times I will!” said Bar¬ 
bara swiftly. 

Just then the doctor’s horn sounded without, and 
they separated with one happy, understanding gaze 
into each other’s eyes. 

“ Did you good, didn’t she ? ” The doctor had been 
furtively studying his girlish chauffeur’s face for a 
mile or two when he startled her with this inquiry. 

“Who did me good? Oh, you mean Patty. Yes, 
indeed, she always does.” Then hesitatingly: “Doc¬ 
tor, doesn’t the Law of Liberty sound like a contradic¬ 
tion in terms?” 

“ Better a contradiction in terms than a contradic¬ 
tion in facts.” 

“You mean by that-?” 

“ That the facts of one’s condition are the important 
matters; the terms in which one states them may be 
quite negligible.” 

“Yes, but then the terms ought to have some sort 
of relation to the facts, oughtn’t they? When they 
flatly contradict each other, doesn’t it make non¬ 
sense?” 


202 


BARBARA MORRISON 


44 Nonsense in this case has the most blessed sort of 
meaning.” 

4 ‘Well, then, doctor, how would you express the 
meaning of the Law of Liberty ?” 

44 I should say that it meant a right to do whatever 
one pleased; because one pleased to do only what it 
was right to do.” 

“Oh, I do like that!” and Barbara eagerly turned 
toward him. 

“Now, now, now!” he warned, “remember the 
ditch!” 

So they both sat silent until she stopped the car at 
the corner of her own street, where he was in the habit 
of dropping her out. She paused on the curb a mo¬ 
ment to say earnestly: 

“ You always do me a lot of good, too, doctor.” 

He flushed with the warmth that the words brought 
to his rugged heart. 

“There, there, you are planning to make me proud 
of you, too, are you?” 

But Barbara saw the twinkling smile in his eye and 
cared no more for his growl than did Laura. On she 
went homeward with springy, glad steps. “At liberty, 
at liberty!” the song of her heart. 

“I will follow my Brother the Prince because it is 
my own choice, and no matter what the hard place 
He leads me through, they too shall be my choice 
because He leads!” 

Ahead of her she saw toiling up the ascent a figure 
so bowed and with such a laggard gait that she did 
not at first recognize it for her father. When she did, 
she ran to him impetuously, and fairly danced around 
him as she cried: 


THE PERFECT LAW OF LIBERTY 203 

“Oh, father dear, I have just been introduced to 
the Law of Liberty; and would you believe it? by 
that dear old bear of a Doctor Hudson! Tell me— 
you know such a lot about law—is his definition 
right?” and she repeated it. Her father said it over 
slowly, and then pronounced it sufficiently accurate 
for a working proposition. 

“Then,” and she whirled about on her toes, “I am 
going to work it. I have always wanted to have my 
own way, and it has always brought me bang up 
against a stone wall; but now I’ve found out how to 
manage.” 

“Some one has expressed it somewhat on this wise,” 
her father said: 

“‘If what is, you will not; still 

This yet remains —what is to will . 1 ” 

And he straightened up and trod more firmly, as if 
merely quoting the words had refreshed him. 


CHAPTER XXII 


BLESSINGS, LIKE CHICKENS, COME HOME TO ROOST. 
DOCTOR SARGEANT DEVELOPS A CRISIS 

D URING that winter and the early spring there 
were many encouraging ups, but also discour¬ 
aging downs, when Barbara declared that everything 
went “ cutering-corner-wise as if possessed.” How¬ 
ever, her family and friends knew that whatever her 
downfalls, they were all on an increasingly higher 
plane than they had ever been before; and Mark 
cheered her with the doggerel paraphrase: 

“As Babs went tumbling up the hill 
To win a crown of glory, 

Mark thought: ‘That sort of tumbling will 
Improve my own life-story.’ 

So while the Kiddie from each fall 
Rose up with cheerful laughter, 

In spite of bumps and bruises all, 

See Mark come tumbling after.” 

Laura was now fully restored; Patty had improved 
until it had become possible to take her, at long in¬ 
tervals, for very short and slow rides in the doctor’s 
car; Barbara was studying so diligently that it was 
not easy for her to do much else, except the small help¬ 
fulnesses which, though they took but little thought 
and little time, had a double value both for herself 
and for those who received them. They taught her 
204 


BLESSINGS 205 

that even a life full of pressing duties has its leisure 
chances for kindnesses, and that that was why women 
like her mother could compass all demands. Mean¬ 
while Barbara’s activities proved to others that her 
chink-filling had become a permanent and a valuable 
scheme of life. 

Doctor Sargeant was still her aversion, and the 
only time she enjoyed him was when he was telling 
of the cripple boy’s success. Laura now played his 
violin accompaniment, but Barbara’s most critical 
watchfulness could discover nothing more than mu¬ 
sical sympathy between them. 

With considerable elation she stated this to Mark. 

“Mark, he doesn’t begin to run after Laura as 
much as he does after you.” 

“See here, sis, you are still too young to under¬ 
stand the subtlety of a young man’s conduct; but 
take my word for it, when a prize like Laura is in 
view, a fellow is bound to capture all the relatives 
and set them to working for him.” 

“Mark, you surely wouldn’t work for him?" 

“He’s a nice fellow, Babs.” 

“But, Mark, to dare to think of carrying Laura 
away from us off to China!” 

“ Fiendish, I know, but perhaps the Chinese need her 
even more than we do.” 

“Never, never, never! And what is to become of 
her music in that dreadful land?” 

“Why, Laura can cheer them up with it while Bob 
cuts off arms and legs.” 

Barbara meditated a while, and then vigorously: 

“Well, I should consider it audaciously wicked of 
him to even contemplate such a thing as carrying 


206 


BARBARA MORRISON 


Laura off, but I don’t believe the idea has ever en¬ 
tered his head. Anyway, I shall do all I can to keep 
her here.” 

Mark looked at her quizzically. 

“What you say, my dear child, is exactly as clear 
as mud. But if it means that you intend to sweep 
out the ocean with your little broom, you will find 
you have a big business on your hands, of which I 
wish you more joy than you are likely to get.” 

At the approach of the Easter vacation her mother 
told Barbara that she was to go with Laura to 
Elm Tree Hill, “for the good time, darling, you 
have certainly earned. Laura says she wants to do 
something to reward you for your long kindness to 
her.” 

They had been there several days when Laura said: 

“If you don’t mind going alone to the post-office 
with these letters, I can be ready by the time you get 
back to take you to the Hidden Glen. I do believe 
it is the loveliest spot ever created, but I wanted to 
wait for just the right sort of a day to show it to 
you.” 

Off Barbara started down the country road blithely 
singing. Ahead of her a small “runabout” had just 
stopped before a cottage gate, and the chauffeur was 
hurrying toward the barn. He had barely turned the 
corner of the house when the car began to move 
slowly down the slight embankment. The lady 
within hastily flung the door open and tried to jump; 
but either her skirt caught or the motion unbalanced 
her, for she fell face downward at full length in the 
road, and the rear wheel pinned both ankles under¬ 
neath it. Barbara ran forward, calling: 


BLESSINGS 


207 


11 Don’t struggle ! I’ll lift it off of you !” 

Then, as there was no response or movement, she 
exclaimed: 

“ Mercy, suppose she has broken her neck with just 
a little fall like that!” and she sprang for the tool¬ 
box and, thanks to her drilling under Doctor Hudson, 
soon had the car jacked up, but only to find that she 
was not strong enough to move the prostrate figure. 
At this instant a touring-car stopped beside her, and 
two gentlemen sprang out. Gently they turned the 
unconscious woman over and laid her on the grass; 
and then to her horror, dirty and blood-stained as it 
was, Barbara recognized the face of Mrs. Barton. 

“Oh, is she dead? Is she dead? Do you think 
she can be dead?” cried she in a desperate fear. 
But immediately her nursing instinct resumed sway, 
and she soon convinced herself to the contrary. 

As if by magic, a small crowd had gathered, other 
cars had stopped, the people from the house came 
running out, and the chauffeur stood by stupid with 
fright. All the rest were only too active, closing 
around so as to exclude the air, asking what had hap¬ 
pened, and how it happened, offering advice and 
generally hindering. 

“Oh,” said Barbara desperately, “can’t we get her 
out of this ? Do, do keep back! Where is a doctor 
that we can carry her to?” 

But already one of the gentlemen had interviewed 
the butcher boy, who was delighted to hand his 
bicycle with the delivery basket over to another boy 
while he undertook to go in the car with them and 
show them the way. 

“Why, sure,” he said, “I know her; she’s Doctor 


208 


BARBARA MORRISON 


Whitcomb’s sister what’s staying with him. Didn’t 
I take her order this very morning.” 

So Mrs. Barton was lifted into the touring-car, 
where, with the aid of one of the gentlemen, Barbara 
supported her; and they shot forward, but not be¬ 
fore the chauffeur had been startled out of his daze 
by the sharp command to bring the runabout along 
double quick, “and the next time you put your brake 
on, put it on /” 

“I tell you,” warmly exclaimed the gentleman as¬ 
sisting Barbara, “you’re a crackerjack with a car. 
Why, dad and I had only stopped to ask our way 
when we saw there was trouble ahead, and speeded 
up for all we were worth; but you had that car yanked 
up in a jiffy ! Couldn’t have done better myself, and 
I'm some joker with a machine, I can tell you ! How’d 
you learn?” 

Barbara for the first time took notice of him and 
discovered that, after all, he was only what she 
called “a big boy,” about eighteen or nineteen, and 
answered rather shortly that their doctor had taught 
her. 

“Well, he’s some teacher, then! What make was 
his?” and question followed question before she 
could answer. 

“Oh, do stop talking!” she unceremoniously or¬ 
dered. “Can’t you see that I’m nearly distracted? 
What do I care about cars and things? If Mrs. Bar¬ 
ton dies of this fall, it will just kill me too! She is 
perfectly adorable!” 

“Oh, I beg your pardon,” and he looked thoroughly 
penitent. “It was confounded of me, but I didn’t 
know the lady was your mother.” 


BLESSINGS 209 

“But she isn’t my mother. What a ridiculous 
ideal” 

Whereat he said with spirit, being considerably net¬ 
tled by the snub: 

“Well, I should consider it the rankest disloyalty 
to call any woman but my mother ‘adorable’!” 

Barbara scanned the flushed, freckled face in front 
of her, and then answered frankly: 

“ I am sure my mother is adorable if ever a mother 
was, but she, too, would think this dear lady adorable,” 
and she tenderly lifted a strand of hair that had blown 
across the still face, and softly added, while tears 
stood in her eyes and her lips trembled: 

“I never saw her but once before in my life, and 
then, though I was nothing in the world to her, 
and didn’t deserve it, she gave me heavenly, eternal 
help.” 

Barbara’s adjectives were apt to be high-flown and 
ill assorted, but this time they reached the inner 
truth, and when later the young fellow was telling 
of the adventure, he said: 

“From the look of her face, mother, when she said 
that, I’d wager my hat she’s good /” 

The doctor was waiting on the steps to receive 
them, and between them they soon had Mrs. Barton 
on her bed, and while the gentlemen went below to 
await the report, Barbara helped the brother with his 
hasty preliminary examination and efforts at revival. 

When at last Mrs. Barton opened her eyes, she ex¬ 
claimed : 

“Such a dreadful fall, Tom,” and then seeing Bar¬ 
bara: “Why, Barbara Morrison, how nice!” followed 
by the cry of distress: “Oh, Tom, Tom, my head! 


210 


BARBARA MORRISON 


Do give me something; the agony will drive me mad ! 
Quick, Tom dear, quick!” 

But he begged her to be patient a little longer till 
he could discover just how much she was hurt; and 
then, having satisfied himself that no bones were 
broken, and that it would do to administer a seda¬ 
tive, he anxiously asked Barbara if, with the help of 
the frightened little country maid who had been 
hovering around, she could get his sister comfortably 
in bed. At her ready assent he looked relieved, and 
left the room. When he returned, it was with a 
clouded brow. 

“Your friends are waiting to take you home.” 

“My friends? Oh, those gentlemen! No, they 
are strangers who picked us up. Can’t I stay and 
take care of Mrs. Barton? Please, doctor, I will do 
exactly as you tell me to. Doctor Hudson taught me 
that that was a nurse’s first duty.” 

His face cleared again. 

“I cannot tell you how grateful I shall be if you 
can stay. My wife is at Amherst, looking after our 
sick boy, and my sister had come to look after me, 
and now needs looking after herself; but there is so 
much illness about that I don’t know of a soul I can 
call upon to help. You take hold as if you had been 
brought up to it; it is astonishing in so young a per¬ 
son. I have an almost dying patient whom I was 
starting to visit, and if you can manage this situation 
with Sarah to wait on you, I will telephone to the 
city for a nurse, make a few imperative calls, and get 
back as soon as possible.” Then he turned back at 
the open door: “By the way, the gentleman said you 
dropped some letters, and asks if he shall mail them ?” 


BLESSINGS 


211 


“Oh, yes; I entirely forgot them, and one was to 
mother.” And then she bethought her of Laura’s 
probable anxiety, and asked him to notify her. 

About an hour later the little maid introduced 
Laura to the door of the darkened room. 

“Babs, dear, this is dreadful to have your belated 
holiday broken into in this way! I don’t see how I 
can allow you to stay.” 

“If you could know, Laura, how thankful I am, 
what a blessing I consider it to have this chance to 
do for Mrs. Barton, you wouldn’t utter a whisper 
against it.” And she explained the doctor’s dilemma, 
until finally Laura acquiesced, and went back to get 
a suitcase ready for Barbara, saying as she left: 

“Those two gentlemen brought me the doctor’s 
message, and they said such lovely things about you, 
Babs, love, especially the young man.” 

“Yes, he was the youngest fellow for his size I ever 
saw, and had the reddest hair,” assented the girl, 
unimpressed. 

“No, dear, his father had the red hair; the son’s 
was brown.” 

“Oh, was it? Well, anyway, he’s frightfully im¬ 
mature and deadly uninteresting!” 

Laura, though still anxious at heart, had with¬ 
drawn with smiling lips, for when Barbara wore this 
indifferent air of extreme aloofness and advanced 
years, her family found her irresistibly comical. 

Doctor Whitcomb returned in much perturbation, 
for no nurse could be sent before the next morning; 
but her face brightened: 

“If only you think I will do, I shall be perfectly 
delighted to stay. My sister was here and is going 


212 


BARBARA MORRISON 


to bring things for me. Please say I may stay. 
Your sister was, oh, so good to me once when I was a 
horrid old thing, and I’ve always longed to do some¬ 
thing for her to prove that her efforts weren’t wasted ! ” 

For the first time he smiled, and said kindly: 

“You don’t look as if you ever were ‘a horrid old 
thing.’ It will be worth everything to her, and to 
me, if you will stay. I shall have to go out again, 
and I can’t leave Nettie to Sarah.” 

And so it was arranged. When Mrs. Barton awoke 
she was fully herself, but in much pain with a badly 
cut mouth, a wildly aching head, and a sense of gen¬ 
eral dislocation. She scouted the idea of needing a 
nurse, but finally yielded to her brother’s represen¬ 
tations. However, through some misunderstanding, 
no nurse came, and it finally resulted in Barbara re¬ 
maining for two or three days longer, when, although 
still lame and shaky, Mrs. Barton could safely be left. 

“What a happy day that was for me when I found 
you behind the station door, my chink-filling nurse. 
How could we have done without you ? Doctor says 
you took hold like a regular Red Cross veteran. And 
you have ministered comfort untold and untellable 
to my poor bruised body, and have proved yourself 
an ideal sort of blessing.” 

Barbara beamed with joy at these words, and even 
more at the affectionate touch and look which ac¬ 
companied them. 

“It’s just your own blessing that you gave me that 
day coming back to you.” 

“Then it has come back with compound interest. 
I’m in the case of the old lady who said that she had 
cast her bread upon the water, and it came back to 


BLESSINGS 213 

her cake. Now listen to me: this summer you are to 
make me a long visit at my summer home in Dorset, 
Vermont. I go there every year.” 

Barbara gasped with rapture, for those three days 
with Mrs. Barton, even though the chats had to be 
brief on account of the lady’s pain, had fastened for¬ 
ever the chains of a passionately romantic attach¬ 
ment. She was still trying to express her blissful 
gratitude when Sarah announced that a gentleman 
was waiting to carry Miss Morrison’s dress-suit case 
for her. 

“A gentleman,” repeated Barbara in amazement. 
“Oh, perhaps Mark has come up for the week-end; 
he said he might.” 

Then she sank on her knees beside the bed, clasped 
Mrs. Barton’s hand in hers, and whispered: 

“Dear Lady Delight, there isn’t a thing in the 
world I wouldn’t do, dare, and suffer for you; so 
please love me a little mite, though really I’m not a 
bit worth it.” 

Mrs. Barton’s laugh winked away the tears in her 
eyes as she felt the girl’s kisses on her hand, and drew 
her face to her own. 

“There, there, I think, with your mother’s kind 
consent, we shall long be loving friends.” 

It was a very radiant Barbara who ran down the 
stairs to meet the expected Mark, but far less radiant 
when she found Doctor Sargeant instead of Mark 
standing at the door chatting with Mrs. Barton’s 
brother. She would have been glad to have rejected 
his escort, but the presence of Doctor Whitcomb 
restrained her. The latter held out his hand as he 
said cordially: 


214 


BARBARA MORRISON 


“I cannot sufficiently express my gratitude to you. 
You have, indeed, been a godsend to us. Believe me, 
it is not flattery when I say that you have unusual 
ability as a nurse, and should you ever become a 
professional, I shall certainly recommend you far and 
wide.” 

“Yes,” said Sargeant, “Miss Barbara is all right, 
with one exception.” 

Doctor Whitcomb smiled at her astonished and 
rather indignant face as he said kindly: 

“Oh, come now, I don’t believe in that one excep¬ 
tion. What is it?” 

“Only that she doesn’t like me,” answered the 
other in mock grief. 

“Then see that you make her like you.” 

“Just what I’m going to do,” asserted he confi¬ 
dently; but Doctor Whitcomb thought that Barbara’s 
eyes said otherwise. 

They had walked together in silence through the 
village, but when they reached the lane leading be¬ 
tween fields to the boarding-house, Sargeant said: 

“Laura told me she would give me just so much 
time as it took us to reach the house to make you 
like me. You see, it is essential that you should like 
me, now that I am going to be your brother.” 

“What?” fairly shrieked she, standing stock-still. 
And then: “Oh, no, no, it can’t be! Never, never! 
Laura mustn’t. We can’t let her be a missionary!” 
And she started on a run toward the house. Sargeant 
dropped the suitcase and caught her by the arm. 

“Now, listen,” he said, and then and there, to his 
own surprise, he preached the most eloquent of mis¬ 
sionary sermons. The words came of themselves, 


BLESSINGS 


215 

and his surprise grew as he found himself telling this 
defiant, antagonistic girl the innermost thoughts of 
his heart, such as he had revealed to no one but his 
mother, and more recently to Laura. He was much 
like Barbara herself in preferring to assume a cloak 
of brusquerie to allowing his tenderer thoughts to 
become known; but now out of the fulness of the 
heart his mouth spoke of his love for Jesus, his long¬ 
ing that souls might be won to Him, and the pressing 
needs of the congested millions of China. 

Gradually Barbara’s face softened, and she gently 
loosened his fingers from her arm, saying: 

“ You needn’t hold me. I won’t run away till you 
have said all you want to.” 

When he had finished, her face was as flushed with 
feeling as his own. 

“I shall never dislike you again,” she said emphat¬ 
ically. “I never really knew you before, and now 
I think I do. I agree with you that you are, as some 
put it, 1 especially called’ to be a missionary, and I’m 
sure that we shall all glory in your success and be 
proud and glad to have known you. But your going 
is no reason at all for Laura’s going, and I shall fight 
that with all my might and main. She simply shall 
not go if I can prevent it.” 

Then over the suitcase between them began a hot 
discussion. Sargeant thought he already knew all 
the objections that could be urged against foreign 
missions, but he now heard more, more ingenious, 
and it must also be confessed, more unfair and dis¬ 
torted arguments than he had ever conceived it pos¬ 
sible the ingenuity of the human mind could invent. 
They both became warm and breathless with their 


216 


BARBARA MORRISON 


rapid give and take, and instead of gaining any ground 
with Barbara, her dogged stubbornness of opposition 
only increased. At last in desperation he suddenly 
changed from the defensive to the offensive, and 
carrying the war into the enemy’s country, declared 
his firm conviction that she ought to prepare and 
herself go as a missionary trained nurse. He pressed 
his point while she listened intently to his amplifica¬ 
tions on the need for missionary nurses, and the vast 
field for usefulness open to them through their inti¬ 
mate association with native women and children in 
such kindly ministrations as would give them the 
greatest influence over grateful hearts. Barbara 
stood with downcast eyes carefully pressing circles 
and daisies in the mud with the toe of her boot. But 
when he had finished, the eyes were very ardent that 
she lifted to his face, and he was almost staggered at 
the promptness of her surrender as she said simply : 

“I think perhaps you are right, and that I ought 
to go.” 

“Whew!” he said, “what would your mother say 
and your father?” 

“Oh, that will be all right,” answered she calmly, 
“and, besides, it wouldn’t be lonely for me with 
Laura there too.” 

“There,” he cried triumphantly, “I had a suspicion 
all along that it was, after all, only selfishness—just 
because you didn’t want to do without her—that 
made you determined Laura shouldn’t go.” 

She turned and looked at him a startled moment, 
and then said thoughtfully: 

“Perhaps you are right, for I don’t feel at all the 
same opposition now that I think I may not be sepa- 


BLESSINGS 


217 


rated from her. I wonder how you happen to be so 
keen to read my faults ?” and she again looked at 
him, but this time with frankly troubled eyes. A 
wave of compassion came over Sargeant for this im¬ 
pulsive, impetuous young thing, with her snap-shot 
judgments and decisions, which were bound to land 
her only too often in many and grave difficulties; and 
as he picked up the suitcase and turned to continue 
their walk, he placed his arm affectionately around her 
and said: 

‘‘Then you will consent to be my loving little sister. 
If you but knew how I have longed for a sister ! And 
how I have envied Mark!” 

Barbara, in considerable embarrassment, gave the 
grudging reply: 

“Why, I suppose if Laura is really going to be so 
foolish as to throw herself away on you, I shall have 
to consent to accept you as a brother.” 

He saw Laura coming smilingly to meet them, and 
said teasingly: 

“Then seal this wonderfully affectionate consent by 
a sisterly kiss.” 

“A kiss? Indeed I won’t, not till I know what 
sort of a brother you are going to make.” 

And, breaking away, she fled to Laura. She could 
not but see even in her haste and excitement that 
her sister’s face had a new womanliness and beauty, 
so she gave her a stormy hug and kiss, and in still 
more stormy tears fled to her room. 

Later, though, she and Laura had a talk most satis¬ 
factory to both. 

“ If you love me one mite less—” it began in threat¬ 
ening tones on Barbara’s part. 


218 


BARBARA MORRISON 


“I shan’t,” interrupted the other; “on the con¬ 
trary, I shall love you very much more; how can I 
help it when Bob keeps singing your praises.” 

“Pshaw!” exclaimed Babs derisively. “That is 
because he thinks it will win favor with you.” 

Then she went on to tell of the suggestion regard¬ 
ing missionary nursing, but was confounded by her 
sister’s dismay and distress. 

“Oh, Bob should never have put such an idea into 
your head. Why, Babs, mother couldn’t possibly 
get along without you, nor father either.” 

“Silly, silly! I’m no special use at home; I only 
do the little things that any one else could do.” 

“Yes, but that no one else does do. You only 
trot, trot on all sorts of errands, watch out for each 
one’s comfort, keep us all enlivened with your fun 
and stimulated with your earnestness-” 

“And in hot water with my bungles and scrapes!” 
still derided Barbara. 

But Laura caught her and hugged her. 

“You shan’t say a word against my Babs—the 
dearest of sisters and the most diligent and success¬ 
ful of chink-fillers!” 

























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